


Kings of the Moonlight

by thelogicoftaste



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Angst, Babysitter Stiles, Businessman!Derek, But then it's kind of worth it, Dad!Derek, Evil!Kate, F/M, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, Isaac Hale, Kid Fic, M/M, Musically inspired!, Shameless references to Scott Pilgrim, Slow Build, The slowest, have I mentioned the angst?, nanny!stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2017-12-07 12:06:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 148,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelogicoftaste/pseuds/thelogicoftaste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek is the newly single father to his only son, Isaac Argent Hale, and he finds himself having to move back to his home town of Beacon Hills to escape the insanity of his ex. It's in the middle of all this upheaval, the crazy mess that his life has become that he meets Stiles.<br/>Crazy, beautiful Stiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cold Desert

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Kings of the Moonlight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5824009) by [ElasticLove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElasticLove/pseuds/ElasticLove)



> [Currently being BETA'd by Lee (howl-to-the-wind), this will be subsequently heavily edited - so you guys only have to deal with the mess that are my typos for a little bit longer!]
> 
> I have read through every Dad!Derek fic on this website and I just wanted some more Daddy Derek dammit! And by God, I will have some.  
> I hope you guys like this, it's angsty but I have a feeling that through the introduction of a certain sarcastic nitwit it will turn into a lovely story of love and acceptance. But for now, it hurts. It hurts like a bitch, it hurt to write this, it will probably hurt to read it. My sister (and my lovely beta) read through this and then threw something at my head. That's how much it hurts. Every chapter title is named after a song, which I will link. But for now let's all just hate Kate Argent.  
> The fic title is inspired by Mikky Ekko's Pull me Down which is my favourite thing at the moment.  
> I am English so forgive my British-isms, there's not much other than using an extra 'u' and writing words with an 're' instead of an 'er' and calling mobile phones, 'mobile phones' instead of 'cell phones'. Stuff like that. Sorry! There are mentions of violence and physical abuse to both Derek and Isaac in this section.
> 
> Of course, Teen Wolf does not belong to me (sad as it may be) it belongs to the original creator Jeff Davis, and all the affiliates of MTV, all of whom created this wonderful series - thanks be to you, Ladies and Gents :)

[_I’m too young to feel this old_ ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YpIpxFH7K8o)

**-**

The polished matte black of the grill cuts swiftly through the bitter cold fog that curls itself around the gleamed black metal of the Camaro. The road, illuminated by a set of four headlights, is covered in the remnants of late winter rainfall whilst the low, rhythmic rumble of the engine intersperses with the wet sounds of the car rolling down the darkened interstate.

Derek Hale looks over at his son nestled in the car-seat, placed on the passenger side to his right, and his heart seizes up, pained and guilt ridden.

Isaac, his little Isaac, sits in his bumper seat with his small hands worrying at each other above the blanket that Derek had tucked around him in his haste. Isaac’s tear stained face is pale with fear as he huffs ragged hiccoughs and trembled breaths despite the fact that the heating is turned all the way up in the car.  

Though, the one thing that Derek will never forgive himself for is the way Isaac’s eyes darts from place to place within the car, for the way Derek _knows_ Isaac can’t bring himself to look out of the window, as if he expects Kate to reappear at any given moment. Derek will never forgive himself because no four-year old should ever be afraid of his own mother.

-

Derek wishes he could say it was a whirlwind; that Kate was a golden-haired hurricane who swept into his life in a cloud of perfume and cigarettes and turned him into the Prince Charming of her fairytale world, that everything happened so quickly; he could hardly blink let alone notice that anything was deathly wrong with her.

In reality it happened in increments, Derek fell deep and he fell hard. He can’t pinpoint the precise moment in which he was absolutely sure that he loved her with every fibre of his being but he surmises that it must have happened somewhere between the first time she smiled at him across a bar, as he drunk away the remnant memories of his last relationship, frowning with conviction at his beer, and the first time she rose up above him again and again, like a crisp tidal wave, overwhelming him with warmth and want and _Kate_.

She was older than he was and a devil of a woman, with self-assuredness and a comfort in her own person that Derek fervently admired. That was the first thing that he found himself entranced by, the confidence that he only wished he possessed. She skirted the line between wild and dangerous and Derek found himself intoxicated by her and the reality she lived in.

Kate was like a drug, new and eviscerating, and she isolated him from everyone he cared about as soon as he graduated college, some seven months after they had first met. He remembers now the loud, tired arguments he had with his sister Laura, how many times he’d simply walked out of family meals with Kate in tow due to the dreadful tension around the dinner table, leaving behind his shocked parents. Derek remembers the screaming matches with Erica, his best friend, who despite hating Kate with a burning fervour, refused to abandon Derek’s side even after she had moved back to their hometown and Derek had gone to the city with Kate.

In a kind of cruel irony, Derek knows exactly when he began to stop loving Kate. He knows the exact expression that caused him to finally see the cracks in the façade that she had created. For the first time ever he saw the real, unrecognisable Kate before she fixed the mask of the persona she had become in order to fool Derek.

Two years into their relationship Derek had sat beside her, both perched on the cold porcelain edge of their bathtub staring with baited breath at the small rectangular pregnancy test that Kate held in her hands. The blood had rushed out of Derek’s face as the small blue cross appeared.

“We’re going to have a baby?” he’d whispered.

In retrospect it had taken Kate too long to formulate an answer, but Derek had attributed it to the same shock and tentative happiness that had also rendered him speechless when she’d responded moments later, “Y-yeah, I guess we are.”

He’d broken out in a wide smile, eyes bright with unmatched delight. He had stood up and carefully gripped Kate around her middle and spun her around.

“We’re having a baby, Katie! A _baby._ ”

He’d felt like he was walking on clouds for weeks afterwards. He was in a daze; he marvelled that he, the master at awkward situations and the spokesman for the shy pariahs of the world was having a baby, a tiny amalgamation of him and his love.

But it was somewhere in the middle of Kate’s second trimester that it happened. It was about an hour past the sunset, and he and Kate were laid in their bed. She was watching some mindless television programme, the volume turned down low as she idly carded her fingers through Derek’s hair and he laid his head just above her bump.

He was distracted, his eyes drooping with weariness, wavering between a state of consciousness and half-remembered reveries where he spoke to his future son. He cooed, and whispered promises of endless love over and over again before he realised he was speaking out loud.

He had stopped speaking in the middle of a sentence, eyes darting up to Kate’s face automatically to see if she had been listening. It’s probably the only reason he had caught the expression on her face. She was looking at him but it wasn’t _his_ Kate, this one was a stranger, an almost-changeling. There was a cruel smirk twisted into her features, a mocking pity towards Derek, an all-encompassing absence of love towards him.

He had seen the look on Kate’s face for less than half a second before she morphed into _his_ Kate, a small and pained smile directed at him, it was clear that they both knew what she really thought of him. Derek had tried to smile back but he has the distinct feeling that it came out as a grimace; his throat was tight and worked constantly as he tried to swallow the lump of sadness that had overcome him.

He had laid his head back down, screwed his eyes tightly shut, humiliation burning a fast, hot course through his entire body.

After that he noticed it more and more, either that or she unleashed her insanity more and more often. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t particularly care either; all he felt at the time was that he was walking on crushed glass whenever he was near her. So he had kept to himself, terrified to anger her and inadvertently cause harm to the baby.

They named him Isaac, to mean ‘he will laugh’ because that was the one thing Derek wished him to be, happy. Isaac was perfect, every inch of him even though Derek kind of thought he looked like a hairless cat for all the pink folds of his skin, the nurses laughed kindly at his description, congratulating him on his bundle of joy, but he didn’t care because wrapped warmly in blankets and nestled in his arms was the love of his life.

Kate had taken a mostly passive role of parenting; she was dismissive towards Isaac’s childish charms, refused to breastfeed him because she wanted to drink, she was content to turn over and go back to sleep when Isaac cried in the night. She was so dismissive that every so often you’d find Derek sat in front of his laptop at three in the morning searching for symptoms of post-partum depression, even though Derek instinctively knew that Kate didn’t have that, that she never did because she was always detached and mad, he was just blind to it all.

So in the intervening years, Derek had thrown himself into raising his son and furthering his job prospects and compulsively working out to prolong the time in which he’d have to head home. They had a ritual of sorts, he and Kate. She would dress Isaac for bed, feed him his bedtime snack and plop him in front of the television until Derek came in from the gym to read to Isaac, kiss his forehead with whispers of love and turn off his bedroom lights.

Kate had mellowed out towards Isaac, and instead took out her fury on Derek in the form of spiteful verbal attacks and a callous roughness when they finally retired to bed. But he took the assaults on his confidence and her hatred of him and her fingernails digging harshly into his skin because at least, he'd reassured himself, it wasn’t Isaac.

Derek didn’t leave her because he was convinced Isaac needed both of his parents together, and Derek was determined to make it work despite everything. It's this thought that has him coming home early from work, skipping the gym and heading straight home.

It's the most unassuming of situations, a Thursday evening in the suburban part of the city; the house that they had bought the year after Isaac was born looks the same as any other on their street. It's quiet and dark; the air chilly and almost still apart from the late January drizzle. He hears it as he presses the key into the lock of the backdoor, skipping the front in order to surprise them.

Derek hears the muffled, high-pitched cries of his son and his heart stops for a moment and his world hangs in a precarious, wounding balance, before it kick-starts with a dangerous conviction.

 _Isaac_.

Derek practically breaks down the door in his haste to get inside, barely remembering to take the set of keys out of the door and stuff them in his pocket before he's rushing through the kitchen and up the stairs.

He hears the sound of glass smashing and he runs towards the sound of Isaac, who is barely containing his screaming, Derek's heart thunders in his chest so much so that he thinks he is going to pass out, unabashed terror flowing freely through his veins, almost drowning him in despair. The sight that greets him, as he thunders open the door, tears Derek’s soul into pieces.

Isaac is curled up in a shaking ball in the furthest corner of his bed, a shower of glass over and around him and remnants of a liquor bottle scattered across the bed spread. A wet splodge is dripping on the wall above him and Kate stands, swaying in apathy opposite him watching it all with some sort of inhumane glee.

Molten rage surges up in Derek, swiftly followed by the acrid taste of bile in the back of his throat. He watches, frozen for a second, blinking and breathing hard, wishing with all his worth that this is nothing but a cruel and highly vivid dream. Kate smirks at him, slurring her words.

“I hate you, Derek,” she says, pointing a finger somewhere to the left of him. “You and this stupid fucking kid, you’ve ruined my _fucking_ life _._ ”

She curls her hand into a tight fist and rushes towards Isaac, poised as if to strike him. Isaac lets out a terrified cry as she advances and Derek moves instantly, placing himself between Kate and his son and she stops. Quite as if she's surprised by him and by his actions, then in a bout of insanity she laughs at him. It's loud and crude and foul.

“You’re pathetic,” Kate tells him, her faced scrunched up in the ugliest expression that Derek has ever seen, and he hates her. He hates her more than he would ever hate anyone or anything else in his entire life.

“You stay away from my son!” Derek bellows, taking on an instinctive protective stance in front of Isaac.

It's here, in this instance that the entire mood changes, she stops; stops swaying, stops moving, she just ... stops.

Instead she stares at him, her eyes flat and hard and cold, a malevolent smile flickers across her face and it terrifies Derek. She takes a single step towards him then: slowly and languidly, with no trace her drunkenness.

“I’m going to _kill_ your son.”

She moves again, possessed with malice and intent and Derek doesn’t even think, just acts instinctively, the action bypasses his brain entirely. He pushes her as hard as he can.

He sends her crashing into Isaac’s chest of drawers on the opposite wall and she thuds on to the floor. Derek doesn’t even hesitate as he turns and scoops Isaac into his arms, rushing down the stairs with his arms wrapped securely around Isaac’s tiny, shaking body.

He can already hear her renewed tirade as he runs back the way he had come, darting through the back door and closing it behind him in the faintest hopes of it slowing Kate down. Derek runs to his car, thanking any and all deities for his good sense in remembering to place his keys in his pocket. He unlocks the car and quickly gets to arranging Isaac so that the seatbelt covers both of them.

It's nonsensically dangerous, he knows that, but there is no way he is letting go of his son now nor is he stopping to strap him in his car seat. Not now that he can see Kate stumbling around the corner of the house brandishing a kitchen knife, eyes wild with hatred.

He roars the car to life, eyes darting to the gas metre and relief pouring through him. He reverses the car back on to the street with one arm curled protectively around Isaac, who tucks his head in to the crook of his father's neck and fists his hands in Derek's clothes as he cries.

Kate is screaming at them, curses and diatribes that go half-unnoticed by Derek. He sees a flash of metal in his peripheral vision as he turns the car into the lane, Kate threw the knife, Derek realises, he hears the dull thud of the blade embedding itself in the side of the car and feels the way that Isaac jumps against him as he too hears the grating sound of metal on metal.

Derek presses his accelerator pedal in a panic as he watches Kate pull open the door of her car in his mirror.

-

Derek speeds through the deserted streets, and takes to the back roads, hoping and praying that Kate won’t be able to follow him. His eyes flicker compulsively to the mirror as he rolls to a stop on the shoulder of a highway some four miles from his suburb; half hidden behind a large billboard and some bushes, it shields any passing cars from an awareness of his and Isaac’s presence.

He unbuckles his seatbelt and fixes Isaac more firmly against him. Derek is terrified and Derek doesn’t often cry, he doesn’t cry for much at all but here, now, he cries for his son. He gives in to the soul-crushing guilt and pulls his son towards him.

“I’m so sorry, Isaac,” he says, brushing Isaac's curls away from his face. “I love you so much, I’m sorry.”

Eventually, when he's calmed a little, Derek pulls Isaac from him, checking the mirror once more before he grips Isaac beneath his arms and holds him in front of him. Isaac’s eyes are puffy and red; his face is littered with newly-forming bruises. His head is ducked towards his chest, hands gripping at each other; he looks like he's trying to curl into himself.

Derek sighs, still trembling slightly as he presses the button for the trunk. He then opens the car door and gets out, placing Isaac in his seat.

Leaving the driver’s side open, Derek rounds to the other side, with Isaac’s wide blue eyes following his every move worriedly. Derek takes Isaac’s car seat from the back and places it in the front instead.

Isaac’s head follows him as he moves towards the trunk of the car, lifting it and essentially blocking Isaac’s view of him, and Derek begins rooting around for Isaac’s travel bag and blanket in the myriad of his work things and gym equipment.

He stops and leans his head against the top of the trunk, closes his eyes and breathes deeply trying to battle the flood of panic building up inside of him, Kate’s words reverberate in his mind, and his imagination runs wild, he dreads to think what would have happened had he come home later.

Derek can’t bear to think about how Kate had hurt his son, how much she was willing to hurt Isaac. Wave after wave after wave of guilt crashes through him because he should have been there. He should have been there to protect his son.

“Dad?” Isaac asks, and his voice is quiet, timid even; worried about the lack of Derek in the past few moments.

“I’m right here, buddy,” Derek calls back, recollecting himself before grabbing what he was searching for and pulling the trunk down. He doesn’t miss the way that Isaac jumps when the trunk locks into place but there is no mistaking Isaac's relief when he sees his dad again.

He was probably terrified by the thought that Derek had left him and that just _breaks_ Derek's heart. Isaac is crouched on the driver’s seat, head peeking out between the seats, watching Derek reverently.

He makes his way back to his son, placing his travel bag beneath the dashboard and wrapping his coat around Isaac’s [Doctor Who pyjamas](http://www.character.com/doctor-who-pyjamas-amy-dr-who.html). He tucks him into the car seat, secures his seatbelt and is now in the process of tucking his blanket around him.

“You okay pup?” he asks, kissing his cheek before crouching down in front of him. “Are you scared?”

Isaac nods through the aftershocks of crying.

“It hurts,” Isaac sniffs miserably.

“I know, baby,” Derek comforts, brushing his brown curls from his face, “I know. But I’ll make it better okay?”

Isaac considers this, scrubs his eyes and looks at his father before ducking his head again. “Mommy-. Mommy’s not gonna hurt us again is she?”

Derek’s eyes sting with tears as he watches his son, his lips clamped into a tight line and his cheeks bright red with exertion. Derek gently hooks two fingers underneath his jaw.

“Isaac, listen to me," Derek tells him. "I am never, _ever_ going to let her hurt you again. Never again, pup, you understand me?”

Isaac nods, mouth downturned and arms reaching to wrap around Derek’s neck.

-

As soon as Derek is back in the driver’s seat he calls Laura and she answers the phone with her usual good cheer.

“What do you want, ingrate?” she grumbles down the line, in omission of a hello. There's a pause before she sighs, “Darling little brother of mine, I’m still at work, and I _know_ you know that. So, whatever it is that you want, out with it.”

All that Derek needs to say is _'I need you'_ , and Laura's tone sobers immediately, she can probably sense the trepidation in his voice.

“Derek? Are you okay? Is it Isaac? Oh, shit. Where are you?” Derek can hear her panicked rustling, as she presumably hastens to grab her things in order to rush out of her office. “Fuck, Derek? _Talk_ to me.”

“I’m fine, we’re both fine. I- … _dammit_ Laura, it was Kate. She-. God, I don’t even know,” Derek bites out, hearing Laura take a sharp intake of breath; he can feel the hatred rolling from her.

“What did she do?” she asks voice straining cold, thin and low .

“I don’t have time to explain, Laura. I just-. I need to sort out this mess. Just meet me at the police precinct, okay? The one near your office.”

“Okay," Laura sighs, "Okay. I’m on my way. Can I speak to Isaac?”

Derek sighs and looks over at his son, looking small and pale and fragile in his seat. He reaches out his free hand to smooth over Isaac’s head; his son's two small hands clutch at his and presses them to his chest, and he smiles tentatively at his dad.

“Not right now,” he tells her. “He’s still pretty spooked.”

“Oh. Sure, of course, of course. I- Der, just hurry okay?" Laura says, and he hears the door of her office snap closed even through the phone. "Hurry and be safe. I’ll see you soon okay? I love you.” 

-


	2. Explosions in Pompeii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tenses are the devil and should be banished for evermore. I have a problematic attachment to using commas, that is all. I kind of want to slap whoever created the present continuous. Seriously.  
> My knowledge of police procedures comes from Google and an excessive amount of crime procedural programmes. I'm sorry.  
> Trigger warning for mentions of a panic attack. This chapter was inspired by two songs, so I put them together in the title and linked them for the appropriate sections.

[ _You left my soul bleeding in the dark_ ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=miOEmyjpLkU)

-

The parking lot of the city precinct is a populous affair when Derek pulls the car in.

Despite nearing nine o’clock at night, small groups of police officers mill around the side of the building on their cigarette breaks laughing, keeping a careful eye on their colleagues bringing in arrests. It's a stark contrast from the tense silence in the car, both father and son sit in near identical poses watching the tableau from their seats with dreamlike detachment.

Derek presses the unlock button, and he's preparing to get out when he sees his sister sitting a few feet away from him. Oblivious to the activity bubbling around her is Laura, perched on the curb in front of the precinct with her arms wrapped around her legs, head cushioned on her knees and her court shoes, blazer and cellphone sitting neatly beside her.

Her head snaps up as if she can feel his presence; she stands up slowly, watching him carefully before she walks purposely towards the car, long hair swaying behind her with every bare-footed step on the asphalt. Derek watches her approach from the car without so much as blinking as the adrenaline crash begins to take hold. She opens the car door, green eyes watching him intently for a few moments, then she leans in and unbuckles his seat belt before proceeding to pull him out of the car.

Laura envelops him in a warm hug, kissing his temple and curling her arms around him as she holds her shaking brother.

When she lets him go, a long moment later, she squeezes his upper arms affectionately and attempts a smile to convey a sense of comfort. She lets him go and heads straight to the passenger side. She pulls it open with a soft click, hesitating as she catches sight of the knife that Kate had thrown, still firmly embedded near the back wheel of the car.

Laura's keen eyes scour Isaac’s face and catalogue the bruising, she spares a worried look in Derek’s direction before unbuckling Isaac with the same care and efficiency that she’d used on Derek an instant before.

“How’s my favourite nephew?” Derek hears her ask as she curls Isaac to her chest for an embrace.

“I’m your only nephew, Aunt Laura.” Isaac mumbles impishly, and the corners of Laura’s mouth tug upwards, glad that Isaac is at least okay enough to participate in their usual routine.

“You’re still my favourite,” she confides, hastily closing the door and gently bumping the tip of her finger against Isaac’s nose. She walks with Derek towards her abandoned belongings, peppering careful kisses on Isaac’s forehead.

“Have you been waiting here all this time?” Derek asks her after a moment, his voice thick with disuse. “The ground is wet," he says. "You’ll have ruined your suit.”

Laura scoffs.

Laura scoffs, “I was worried, Derek, not struck stupid." She rolls her eyes before pointing out the open newspaper she was sitting on.

Bending to scoop her belongings and binning the newspaper in the trashcan as they walk, he asks her, “How long have you been waiting? I kind of-. Well I-, I lost track of time.”

“I don’t know, a little while, I guess? I came straight here. You had me really concerned, Derek,” Laura looks at Isaac, resting his head in the crook of her neck, trembling slightly and completely swimming in Derek’s coat. “And I was right to be, too. Are you okay?”

Derek, weighed down by fatigue and the memories of the whole ordeal, glances at his son as they walk into the bright, stark light of the building, sighing deeply, “I will be.”

-

The investigation room is impersonal and metallic and the sterile monochromatic décor puts a chill in Derek.

His arms itch to hold his son, but as far as he knows Isaac is on the other side of the building being looked after by the nurse from the local hospital, brought over at Laura’s bequest. It had been hell to let go of his son, as Isaac twisted in the strange woman’s hold and cried out for Derek, and he wanted nothing more than to run away with his son and shield him from the world.

Instead he had shushed him with kisses and quiet reassurances even as the tears stung at his eyes, acrid and dry. After an hour Isaac had quietened down, whimpering tiredly in the nurse’s arm, clinging tightly to his father’s hand. Laura had gently prised Derek’s hand from Isaac’s, both father and son equally unwilling to let go of each other. Laura had grabbed the sides of Derek’s face, forcing him to look at her.

“Derek," she'd said. " _Derek,_ listen to me _._  They have to take him, they have to make sure he’s alright, they need to talk to him and find out what happened but it _needs_ to be unbiased, okay? You can’t be with him right now.”

At that Derek had made a small, wounded sound in the back of his throat but Laura didn’t relent, despite the flicker of empathetic hurt in her eyes.

“I’ll be with him. I’ll be with him all the way,” she had promised; redressed in her heels and blazer, Laura looked every inch the lawyer their parents raised her to be. She had a fierce glint of determination in her, she shook her head bitterly. “I’m not going to let her get away with what she did to you, Derek. Mark my words.”

-

It seems to Derek, that the hours he's spending in the interrogation room trickle by so slowly that it might as well be going backwards. He stares listlessly at the opposite wall, replaying the day in his mind as he waits for the Detective Inspector to arrive.

A few minutes previously, Laura had slinked into the room and pulled the other chair closer to his, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Isaac’s asleep,” she tells him, after a moment of deep heavy silence; sighing deeply. “There’s someone watching over him now, but I think he’ll be out like a light for a little while longer. He’s been through a lot today.”

The silence in the room returns, stiff and unbearably tense, the elephant in the room being woefully ignored by both Hale siblings.

Long seconds later Derek finally asks, “How is he? What did the nurse say?”

Derek’s mouth is suddenly parched; he almost didn’t want to hear what Laura had to say.

He unequivocally does  _not_ want to hear what Laura's going to say, because he knows with undeniable certainty that Isaac’s injuries are worse than what he saw at first glance.

Laura crosses her legs easily at the ankle, resting them on the tip of her Louboutin heel, hands stuffed in the pockets of her fitted silk pants as she gracefully reclines in the metal chair. She runs the tip of her tongue against the top of her mouth, eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance, darting this way and that as she carefully chooses her words.

“This wasn’t the first time,” Laura says, and Derek can hear the barely controlled tenor of her voice, even as he breathes out harshly, tipping his head back and shaking his head slowly.

“Nurse Peppard found old bruises," Laura goes on. "In places you couldn’t see easily," she pauses, considering, darting a glance at her brother. "In places that  _you_ especially wouldn’t see, Derek. She made sure she dressed him at night and in the mornings.”

Laura keeps talking, detailing Isaac’s injuries to Derek's unwilling ears, telling him that, “It’s mostly superficial, but he has a bruised wrist bone,” and speculating how Kate had probably tried to hide her abuse of Isaac from Derek.

His eyes are stinging as he droops forward, elbows on his thighs and his head in his hands, Laura reaches over and rubs soothing circles on his back.

“I’m so sorry, Derek.”

His body deadlocks. Remaining unmoving and that’s when he begins to panic, the guilt crashing into him yet again, an amalgamation of every spiteful word that had ever come out of Kate’s mouth swirling in and around in his mind.

He snaps out of his trance with a deep inhale that burns through his lungs; the air around him feels thick and crowded and he can feel the pressure of it enveloping him.

He can feel the cold seeping through his clothes and through his skin and into his _bones_ as he begins to hyperventilate: short breaths through his nose, chest heaving in a staccato form even though it feels like it's about to concave with pain.

“Derek? Hey,” Laura’s says, voice muffled and distanced, but soft; just out of grasp. “Just breathe, please. He’s okay now, he’s okay.”

She repeats it like a mantra, over and over. Derek exhales long and slow, trying to still his heart before opening his eyes, bit by bit, in small measured increments. It takes a while, but he finally does get his breathing under control. 

They were still waiting for the Inspector, an hour later. Derek is staring blankly at the opposite wall, Laura sitting quietly beside him. She turns to him, looking long and worried before she speaks. 

“What are you going to do now?”

Derek shifts in his seat, his body stiff and unresponsive, he's silent for a long time.

“I think I-, I need to call Mom and Dad,” he says eventually. “I’m going to take Isaac home.”

Laura makes an acknowledging sound and looks pleased with that until she remembers why it is that they need to call their parents.

“I’m coming with you,” she tells him resolutely. “To stay.”

Derek’s head swivels round towards his sister, “What? You-. Why? You can’t just leave everything behind.”

Laura lifts a single eyebrow, “You’re doing it.”

She holds up the palm of her hand when Derek gears up to respond.

“Ah! Nope, it’s decided, I’m moving too," Laura declares. "I’m your sister and siblings are meant to stick together, _family_ is supposed to stick together Derek; we’ve spent far too much time away from Anthony and our parents.”

“What about work?" he reasons. "You can’t just suddenly relocate to Beacon Hills.”

“It’s my firm Derek; I can do whatever the hell I want.”

“It’s mom’s firm, Laura.”

“It’s the _family_ firm, and I’m pretty sure that mom will understand given the circumstances," she quirks an indignant eyebrow. "Besides, _you’re_ doing it.”

“I can work from home, seeing as my company actually  _is_ my company; you’re hardly able to do the same.”

Laura grins, “I can kick ass in the Beacon Hills courtroom though, and they won’t know what hit ‘em.” Then, she pulls a face teasingly, “If worse comes to worst I can just come and work for you.”

Three seconds later her expression dissipates at the clear anguish on her younger brother’s face.

“They’ll be disappointed,” Derek says, refusing to look at Laura when she sits up to regards him.

“Don’t say that. Don’t you ever say that, they’re _not_ and they won’t ever be,” she grasps Derek’s hand firmly. “What Kate has done to you, to _Isaac_ is unforgivable Der, but not once did we ever resent you for it. Ever.”

“My own stupidity got my son hurt, Laura. Isaac is hurt because I was stupid enough to let it get this far.  _I_ did that to him.”

Laura shakes her head firmly, “It's not your fault, Derek. _Stop_.”

Derek's mouth opens to respond but before he can formulate an answer, the heavy door of the room swings open and an officer bustles in with an expediency that can only be attributed to a police detective. Derek and Laura immediately stand up, extending their hands in greeting.

“Detective Inspector Hill,” he introduces to Derek, shaking his hand before turning and nodding in acknowledgement at Laura as he shakes hers. “I apologise for the long wait. I'm here to investigate your son’s case; I’m a member of the city’s Special Victims Investigation Unit.”

The detective motions for them to sit down, following suit before he levels Derek with a long, appraising look.

“Mr Hale, please rest assured. Isaac is still soundly asleep, his injuries are severe, but they have been looked after. I've personally interviewed Isaac, with both a qualified child officer present and your sister acting as his legal aid, and we’ve sent officers to your home, and to photograph and document the knife found in your car. We’ve placed an A.P.B. on Ms. Argent –"

Laura spares a glance at Derek’s slightly confused frown and elaborates, “An _All Points Bulletin_ , just means they’re on the lookout for her.”

“Precisely,” the detective continues. “We’re looking for Argent, and plan to charge her and place her in custody as soon as we possibly can. Though, I need to ask you a few questions first to make sure that Isaac is safe in your guardianship.”

Derek bristles at that, jaw clenching painfully and Laura doesn't even look at him, pressing a calming touch on his arm whilst she addresses Inspector Hill. “It’s just standard procedure, isn’t that right, Detective Inspector?”

Hill nods and clasps his hands in front of himself, "Just standard procedure."

Derek somewhat calms at that, as Laura gently squeezes his arm in comfort. The Detective Inspector waits until Derek has visibly deflated.

“Mr Hale," Hill begins, leaning forward."Well, Isaac's made it quite clear that you saved him from the aggressions of his mother. But, children are _very_ vulnerable, especially when they go through traumatic experiences, and it's my job to make sure that he's safe with whomever he ends up with, you understand?”

“Yes sir,” Derek answers, nodding solemnly; but he doesn't hesitate this time: “What do I have to do?”

The Detective Inspector interrogates Derek for close to twenty minutes, asking about Isaac’s home life, about Derek’s relationship with Kate, how long they were together, where and when they met, about Derek’s own state of mind, etc. etc.

Derek doesn't think that Hill is trying to trick him by asking all of these leading questions but can't read the man well enough to be sure.

He has no idea whether Hill sees him as a threat to his _own_ son. Derek loves Isaac more than he values his own life, but he can understand how the situation might be seen from the perspective of a stranger. Honestly, Derek is overwhelmed by the entire thing, which is predominantly why he fumbles over his words as Hill furthers his line of questioning.

“Were you aware of the aggressive nature of Miss Argent towards your son?”

“N-No," Derek stammers. "I didn’t.”

The question surprises Derek, making him stumble over his words, helplessly looking over at Laura.

A flicker of scepticism crosses Hill’s face, and his voice takes on a harder edge, “Mr Hale, I find it _very_ hard to believe that after four years in the daily company of Miss Argent, you didn't _once_ notice that she was aggressive towards him.”

“I never she said she wasn’t aggressive,” Derek argues mindlessly, the words are out of his mouth before he even knows it.

“Derek-,” Laura begins warningly but she's overridden by the Detective Inspector.

“So you mean to tell me, that you stayed in a house with your son when you _knew_ your partner was aggressive towards him?” Hill asks now, there's no mistaking the hard tone in Hill's voice, or the rigidity in the hard, flat line of brow. “And you didn’t do _anything_ about it?”

“Kate never-."

"Mr Hale," Hill sighs gruffly. "I suggest you get your words in order." 

"She took her aggression out on different things,” Derek tells him, words garbled through gritted teeth. 

“Like _what,_ Mr Hale?”

“Me,” Derek spits. "She took it out on me." 

There silence that follows is sudden and intense.

The disgust drops from Hill’s face, only to be replaced by blooming understanding. Meanwhile Derek resolutely ignores the shocked silence radiating from Laura, the way she stares at him in surprise. 

Derek’s heart thuds away in his chest, and he locks his gaze to the polished metal top of the table in front of him. He can feel the scrape of nerves at his oesophagus, the prickle of heat that bursts through his skin as the humiliation hits, slow and burning over him.

The social stigma of being abused by the one person with whom he’d entrusted his heart to is overwhelming; the reason he never dared to tell anyone else before.

“Derek?” Laura asks, voice thinning out in worried disbelief. But he refuses to look at her; he won’t be able to stand seeing the pity on his sister’s face. “ _Derek._ ”

After an infinite amount of time, his gaze finally flickers over to hers, though instead of pity he'd expected to find, there is a fervent anger and slight trepidation lying behind her tearful eyes. Her mouth is pressed into a fraught line and her hands grip her chair tightly.

Hill clears his throat uncertainly, and both Hales turn to look at him. The detective looks at Derek, and Derek is relieved to note that there's no pity in his gaze either, just the compassionate gaze from beforehand. “Was this a common occurrence? Was there no way of escaping the situation?”

“I used to-," Derek chokes on a bitter laugh. "I used to tell myself that I _couldn't_ leave, because Isaac needed his parents together but-,” he pauses, breathing deeply, licking his chapped lips. “I was scared, that she’d take Isaac from me; Kate’s a very good liar; believe me, she can fool anyone if she puts her mind to it.”

The inspector nods sagely, motioning for Derek to continue.

“Isaac’s the most important person in my life, Detective. And with Kate, I-. As long as it wasn’t Isaac,” Derek gestures to himself. “I could take it.”

“Well,” Hill clears his throat. “It’s clear that you obviously love your son very much. And, I should think you would be more than adequate to look after him. But if you are to retain guardianship, we do need to medically examine you for evidence against your partner and I do suggest that both you and Isaac pay visits to a qualified, professional, clinical psychologist in order for you to overcome this situation intact."

Hill takes a deep breath, pointing his pen at Derek and narrowing his eyes in scrutiny, "Of course, by suggest, I mean you that  _will_ be going to a psychologist, Mr Hale. For at least a year and I expect reports.”

“Of course,” the Hales chorus. 

After a brief pause, Laura continues, “We're going to be moving to Beacon Hills, however, as soon as possible. We'll have to liaison with their police department.”

“How soon is soon?” Hill asks, brows furrowing.

“Tomorrow,” Laura replies then glances at the clock; seeing that it is in the early hours of the morning she corrects, “Today.”

-

[ _And the walls keep tumbling down in the city that we love._ ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F90Cw4l-8NY)

_-_

The phone call to his parents is one of the hardest things Derek's had to do in his life; this this entire _week_ is the worst thing he had ever had to go through. He hates the way that he has to explain what had happened, how he’d fucked up everything and was now running back home with his tail between his legs.

He hates the way his mother sighs, “Oh sweetheart!” as he cries to her, something he hasn’t done in years. He _loathes_  how the dark silence emanates from his father down the line, and how he heard the tremble in his voice when he pleaded, “You come home now Derek, you and Isaac. We’ll be waiting for you son”; and Derek knows that he is the cause of their pain.

But he doesn’t think it compares to the feeling swirling and broiling in a fetid mess of nerves and apprehension in the pit of his stomach as Laura puts the camaro in park in front of the Hale house. Neither he nor Laura endeavour to make any attempt at moving, they just watch the sprawling mass of their childhood home.

Even Isaac sits tranquil in the backseat, twisting his head and blinking at the early Sunday sky as he listens in awe to the [morning song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3TaS77DHlmU) of the flock of California quails.

Derek is  _tired_ ; a deep seated fatigue that has been building up for as long as he'd been with Kate. He's tired of the conflict that has torn at the seams of his family for so many years, and he just wants an end to it all. He just wants to be able to raise his son, to love him and to keep him safe.

He feels like he has half a chance at it now, with Kate securely across the country and the police looking for her. But Derek still feels the tiredness begin to seep into his bones anyway. He hasn’t slept for close to forty hours, instead spending his time comforting Isaac as he shook and cried through his first night terror.

Derek was in a frenzy watching helplessly as Isaac thrashed against him, clinging desperately to him even as he tried to escape the tangled sheets Laura had placed in his bumper seat, his eyes wide and scared. Laura had stayed awake with them all night: Derek and Isaac curled up in the back seat and Laura sprawled in the front, with her legs perched atop the collapsed passenger’s seat, parked on the side of the road about thirty miles out of the city.

Isaac had finally gone back to sleep hours later but he'd refused to let go of Derek.

Derek jumps at the rap of knuckles on the passenger window and his eyes flicker up to the sight of Laura carrying Isaac, motioning for him to come out. He was so deep in his thoughts that he hadn’t even realised that Laura had gotten out of the car; spurred into action, he unbuckles his seat belt and gets out.

He barely closes the door of the camaro when the front door of the Hale house opens. Tough, instead of his parents, standing there, in faded jeans and a plain white tee, is Erica. Her blonde curls are pulled up into a messy ponytail, tear-trails run down her face but a bright smile is set firmly in place as she stands on the porch waiting for Derek to approach her. She throws her arms around him as soon as he is within arm’s distance, pulling him close and hugging him tight.

After a moment, she rears back, fixing him with her best glare, hissing, “You’re an absolute fucking _idiot_ , Derek.”

“Language,” Laura chastises as she breezes by, with Isaac perched on her hip, shouting for their parents as she enters the house. Derek hears the delighted greetings from his family as, presumably, Laura and Isaac appear before them.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Erica continues, as if Laura hadn’t spoken. “I'd have been there to drag your ass back home.”

“I missed you,” Derek tells her instead, pulling her back in for a long, _long_ hug. He missed her more than he knew, realising it only as she stood in front of him, acting as fierce as she always has. And for that, for not acting like he's broken, Derek, will be forever grateful; because Erica will always call him out on his shit, no matter what happens.

Apart from Laura, Erica is the only other person who knows about Kate’s vindictiveness towards him; Derek has a feeling that she had probably hot-footed it over to the Hale’s as soon as they’d ended their phone call the day before.

“Yeah,” she laughs. “Apparently Skype calls twice a week doesn’t really hold a candle to your actual shitty presence. Who knew?”

“You’re supposed to be comforting me, Erica,” Derek tells her, and he's only half-teasing.

It's actually kind of terrifying how Erica’s face morphs as she scowls, “I’m going to rip her spine out," she promises. "With my _teeth_.”

Derek half-expects fangs to grow out and extraneous hair to sprout from her face like some sort of angry Chihuahua.  

But then she smiles at Derek, “I cancelled all of my appointments. I’m yours all day tomorrow.”

“What for?”

“To find a place for you, dumbass. I’m assuming you don’t want to be living with your parents for the rest of eternity,” she rolls her eyes; and this right here is why Erica is Derek’s best friend, she thinks of everything before he even needs to.

“You didn’t have to do that, Erica," he says. "I can work around your schedule, you know? Your clients-"

“I’m a real estate agent, Derek, not a surgeon. No-one is going to die if I reschedule to spend my day helping out a friend. Now,” she smiles, leading him by the hand. “Come inside, everyone is waiting for you.”

As soon as they enter the lounge, Erica lets go of his hand and makes a beeline straight for Isaac, scooping him where he’s perched atop Derek’s mom’s lap. She presses him to his chest, cuddling him before hollering into his curls, “Oh my god! I’ve missed you so much, kid.”

Pretty much everyone Derek cares about is seated on the various seats scattered across the sitting room. They all stand quickly with wide, slightly worried smiles and come forward to embrace him. Anthony, his and Laura's older brother, reaches him first, and then his very pregnant wife, Alma who kisses him on the cheek. Then Boyd, Erica’s fiancée and one of Derek's oldest friends.

Boyd doesn’t say anything, but then again, it doesn’t matter because they have a full conversation in the form of facial expressions anyway, with an efficiency that comes only with years of friendship.

His Uncle Peter claps his hand on Derek’s back thrice and tells him “It’s good to have you back.”

Peter’s wife Lissie smiles and waves at Derek from where she's tucked beneath his arm, their twins Reuben and Renée grin sleepily at their cousin from where they’re collapsed together on one of the couches. Robert Hale approaches his son and hugs him long and tight, muttering words of comfort close to Derek’s ear. Derek holds on, closing his eyes against the tears and burying his face into the familiar warmth of his father’s sweater. When Robert pulls away, his glasses are askew on his face.

Derek laughs a little, “ _Dad,_ your glasses _,_ ” but he reaches to fix them anyway, feeling like his five year old self all of a sudden, as his dad ruffles his hair before stepping away.

Derek’s mom walks towards him smiling, holding his head between her hands she presses a kiss to his forehead, “Sweetheart, how are you?” 

“Better now,” he tells her, and it's true, even though he still feels a little sheepish in front of his mom despite being an actual full-grown adult.

“Good, darling, that’s good hear. I’ve already started taking legal action – I’m going after her for everything she has. She’s going to wish she was never born, baby. Don’t you worry about that.”

Derek stares speechlessly at his mother, looking as beautiful as ever in her fifty-three years of age and still as awesomely intimidating. Talia pats her son’s cheek genially, chuckling throatily before turning and heading towards the large kitchen towards the back of the property.

“Breakfast is on the table,” Talia calls.

 Predictably everyone follows.

-

It's a week later that Derek collapses into the sofa of his new apartment, exhausted from carrying the numerous boxes that encompass his and Isaac’s lives up into the building. Derek contents himself by watching Isaac trying to spring his short legs higher and higher as he tries to reach into the bottom of a box on the other side of the room.

Laura had been the one to get Derek’s life back in order, flying back to the city for a couple of days to organise for a moving team to pack up Derek and Isaac’s things from their house and shipping it to Beacon Hills as well as arranging for the house, which was thankfully in Derek’s name, to be sold. Derek had told her that she didn’t need to do all of this for him but she’d silenced him with a stern look and reasoned she had to “sort out the mess of my own life too.”

So Derek had let her go and instead he became re-acquainted with Beacon Hills, in between sleeping like the dead, and looking after Isaac. It hadn’t changed at all since he was a kid, which of course he knew due to frequent visits over the years, but it was a little different when he was faced with the prospect of actually living there. Beacon Hills is like a modern-day fully rebirthed and functioning Pompeii, Derek thinks: a town frozen in time.  

After about five minutes of Isaac’s huffs and puffs of breath and the determined noises makes at the back of his throat, tongue poking the side of his mouth in concentration, he emerges victorious.

Brandishing his [plush penguin](http://www.stuffedark.com/pengempchkwl.htm) triumphantly he runs over to Derek, scrambling onto his lap with knees and elbows digging in painfully as he contorts himself into a comfortable position on his father.

"Well," Derek mutters. "Aren't you pleased as punch?"

Somehow, Derek figures that his little boy’s definition of comfortable is not the same as everyone else’s. Isaac, lying horizontally across Derek’s lap, has his head pillowed in the crook of his father’s elbow, arms wrapped around Benji the Penguin, a leg pushed up against Derek’s chest and the other dangling uselessly against the seat. At his father’s incredulous look Isaac bursts into giggles, smiling wide and flashing his pearly-white teeth at his dad before hiding his face behind his penguin.

“You’re such a weird kid, Isaac,” Derek teases, smile playing on his lips.

“Am not,” Isaac immediately refutes.

“Are too.”

Isaac lowers his penguin, fixing his father with his best glower, “Am _not,_ ” he looks remarkably like his father then, but then another round of giggles bursts forth, “ _You’re_ weird, dad!”

Derek lifts a single eyebrow, “I’m going to tickle you until you apologise.”

Derek leans back as Isaac jumps up and off him trying to get away from his father’s tickling hands, laughing breathlessly as he careens into Laura in the threshold.

“Woah! Hey, there little man,” she laughs. “What’s going on?”

“Daddy’s try’na tickle me!” Isaac breathes, hiding behind Laura’s leg, keeping his bright eyes on Derek.

“Oh, really?” Laura smiles, beaming at him.

“Yeah!”

“Well, Isaac luckily for you, I happen to be an awesome Aunt. I bought some treats for you and Benji,” she says nodding at the penguin clutched to Isaac. “It’s on the kitchen counter.”

Laura barely finishes the sentence before Isaac is dashing off towards the kitchen, “Be _careful_ , Isaac,” she shouts after him, before pausing and levelling a look at Derek.

He stands up, instantly apprehensive upon seeing the guarded look on Laura’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“They found Kate’s car, Derek," Laura carefully begins. "It crashed somewhere off of the main interstate of the city."

Derek’s heart thuds harder, but he doesn’t know how to feel. He has no idea whether he’s supposed to feel happy by this or upset or anything at all. The feeling twists and mixes until he’s feeling a little more than numb.

“And-. And Kate?” he asks, through his lightheadedness.

“That’s just the thing, Derek, the car was _crushed_ but-,” she shakes her head, searching for the right way to continue. “But Kate wasn’t in it. They didn’t find her, it’s like she dropped off the face of the earth.”

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made sure to write 'mom' instead of 'mum' because it really pisses me off when I see 'mum' but it's an American show/book and vice versa. As you have probably noticed, the sentences in which the songs are linked are the lyrics of the song. I hope you like this part! :)


	3. Born to Die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a real problem with integrating quotations; my English teacher and I are working through it I promise, so I hope that it’s not too clunky and awkward. 
> 
> Also, sweet jesus who knew characterising a tiny wee Isaac would be so damn hard?  
> I've noticed that I make loads of analogies to large bodies of water in this fic, I have no idea why. Just go with it. Heh. Go with the flow …. Nice!

[ _Sometimes love is not enough, and the road gets tough I don’t know why._ ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bag1gUxuU0g)

_-_

Derek feels wholly uncomfortable waiting for the Sheriff in his office; it isn’t that the chair is uncomfortable, but instead the reason for why he's waiting is what's making him so fidgety. He's been spending so much time in police quarters lately that he's beginning to develop a Pavlovian trepidation when waiting for police officers.

It had taken a full three days but Laura had finally harassed Derek into going to the police station despite his many, _many_ excuses. Coils of worry and fear and trepidation and _something_ had been encircling his entire body ever since he found out about Kate’s disappearance.

He’s pretty much kept himself and Isaac in the house like hermits since Laura came by with the news, that is until she’d had enough of running errands for him and told him to _‘grow the fuck up'_  and get out of the house, promising she’d drop-kick Kate before she had any hope in hell of going near him.

Derek, long tired of examining the photographs, trinkets and certificates that are scattered around the office, is now entertaining himself by pulling faces in his discomfort.

He’s been enclosed in the room for a near ten minutes when the door opens. Derek stands up quickly, willing to get the meeting over as quickly as possible but the person who walks in however does not look old enough to be the sheriff; in fact he does not look old enough to be working for a police department at all. But that's just hyperbole on Derek’s part; the other man looks to be in his early twenties, with a clear complexion, light-coloured moles dotting the side of his face and dark eyelashes fanning out across the top of his cheeks.

He's probably about the same height as Derek; perhaps an inch or two shorter though Derek can’t be completely certain as the man is hunched over fiddling with the tops of two clear plastic lunch-boxes in his grasp. He closes the door with his foot and instantly launches into a conversation.

“So," he says. "Okay I think I’ve got a lead on the missing pop tarts because even though Scott was the last one over to my apartment, Jackson tagged along with Danny the day before that and he’s just so evil to do this to me …”

Derek stands there with his hand outstretched in total awkwardness. But he doesn’t want to be _that guy,_ the one who just stares at the stranger until he notices him, so he politely clears his throat in the hopes of getting his attention.

If Derek had been hoping for a reaction, he's certainly in for a show. The man’s eyes flicker up to Derek, registering his face before he flails uncontrollably, taking wide steps backwards. He swears loudly and gives a full body shudder as he holds the lunch-boxes in front of him like some sort of weak defence. In his intense floundering he moves backwards into the corner of the room; his face rife with comical panic. Derek holds his hands in front of his body, taking a small step backwards himself in reaction to the man's floundering.

There's a long tense silence wherein both men stare at each other, eyes wide, frozen in place. 

“You-," the strangers says, eyes narrowing. "You’re not my dad.”

“No. Uh,” Derek slowly drops his hands and hazards. “And you’re not the Sheriff, are you?”

The other man manoeuvres an unimpressed look at Derek, “Do I look old enough to be the Sheriff?” The man pauses, looks at Derek with his eyes narrowed. “Are you a criminal?”

Derek’s eyebrows rise infinitesimally, “What?” 

The other man rearranges the boxes in his hold and waves a hand in front of his own features, pulling a face.

“You know," he says. "You’ve got the whole eyebrow thing going on with the cheekbones and the stubble.”

Derek stares at him, said eyebrows knitting in confusion at the other man.

“You’re all like _serial-killer chic_ ,” he continues despite Derek’s look, a lopsided smile in place and his body moving side to side as if delighted with his observation, though upon seeing Derek’s burgeoning sour expression his own soon drops.

“Please don’t kill me,” he says and then: “Or tell my dad that I said that. I think telling my dad would be worse actually.” The man grimaces, “Please don’t tell my dad.”

As if summoned, Sheriff Stilinski materialises in the door not a second later, nodding at Derek and outstretching his hand.

“Mr Hale,” he begins. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, I ran into some urgent business that couldn't …”

He trails off as he catches sight of his son, trying his hardest to remain quiet and immobile in the corner, and he sighs, long and hard. The younger man smiles gawkily, moving his hand to wave and instead fumbling with the lunch boxes as they topple over. He catches them before they tumble to the ground and clutches them to his chest, looking up sheepishly at the Sheriff.

“He-ey, Dad,” he breathes.

“Get out.”

The man's expression instantly morphs into exaggerated shock, “But-”

“Out,” the Sheriff reiterates opening the door and pinching the bridge of his nose.

Derek can tell that this is a common occurrence and he feels discomfited and gauche as he stands there on the sidelines of the Stilinski’s conversation.

“But I brought you lunch,” the man, Stiles, holds up the boxes as peace offerings. “Freda helped and everything so you _know_ there’ll be something in there you like!” 

“Stop harassing my wife, Stiles.”

“I’m _not_ , she offered to help, I swear.”

The Sheriff sighs again, deeply and then stops as a thought occurs to him, “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

Stiles flushes a deep red as guilt overcomes his features; his father on the other hand develops a look of deep-seated frustration that comes only from having the same conversation repeatedly. He sighs, “Tell me you didn’t.”

“I was going to tell you.”

“What again? How many times does this have to happen, Stiles?”

All sense of comicality drains out of Stiles’ expression as he stares at his father. “She hated me though; she had it in for me Dad _and_ she said I talked too much.”

“You _do_ talk too much.”

“She knew that when she hired me,” Stiles protests, frowning deeply. 

Sheriff Stilinski glances over apologetically at Derek before turning back to Stiles’ indignant expression. “This is not the time to be talking about this,” he tells Stiles. “Come over to the house tonight.”

“I can’t.” Stiles replies, averting his gaze to the ground and looking, for all intents and purposes like a reprimanded child. “It’s date night with Noah, he’s taking me out.”

“Cancel,” the Sheriff tells him. “Noah will understand if you don’t go to the Olive Garden or whatever tonight. Now leave.”

Stiles throws an insulted look over to the Sheriff but he complies with his orders nonetheless, petulantly grumbling. _'He has better taste than the Olive Garden,'_ under his breath as he thrusts the packed lunches towards his father and stomps out of the door.

Sheriff Stilinski closes the door behind Stiles before levelling another apologetic look towards Derek. “I’m very sorry, Mr Hale-”

“Call me Derek, please.” He tells him, shaking the Sheriff’s hand firmly and sitting down as the Sheriff motions.

The Sheriff smiles at him as he continues, “Derek then, I’m very sorry. I'm aware how unprofessional that was just then and I assure you that it’s not usually like this but _kids_ , you know?”

Derek smiles ruefully, “Believe me sir, I know.”

“Your son?” The Sheriff asks.

“Isaac, yeah. He’s a great kid and I love him to death but he's such a terror sometimes. He’s four, so he thinks that it’s his prerogative to make me do whatever he wants.” 

Sheriff Stilinski chuckles heartily, “I remember when Stiles was just like that,” he says and then he leans forward to share, “Just wait until Isaac’s in his teens; you’ll be wanting to tear your hair out most of the time."

"Don't remind me," Derek smiles, eyes steady on the Sheriff's kind face.

"In light of recent events," the Sheriff asks, a veneer of professionalism befalling his features. "How are you and Isaac holding up?”

Derek talks to Sheriff Stilinski, and it is so damn relieving to _finally_ be able to get it off of his chest, they have an honest and open conversation about everything that's happened.

The Sheriff is a marginal stranger to Derek; he’s not Derek’s four year old child and nor is he Derek’s family, who have taken to treating him as if he was made of spun glass.

Derek doesn't have an easy and simple relationship with his family but by the way that they've been acting in recent times you’d think that antagonism had never before taken up semi-permanent residence in the Hale household.

Later, the Sheriff sits back in his chair and rounds back to the topic of Kate, a subject that makes Derek’s skin feel too tight all at once, like his personhood is being shrunken so as to make room for Kate and all of her problems.

“Frankly, we have no idea where she is,” the Sheriff sighs haggardly. “We've frozen her accounts but she hasn’t gone back to your old house, and her father says he hasn’t seen her. There's not much we can do but wait for her to slip up and show her face, and hopefully that'll happen _before_ she gets to Beacon. She’s wanted for many things Derek, she's shown herself to be a violent and very unsettled individual. Are you sure you don’t want to hire some kind of protection?”

Derek is quiet for a moment, trying to piece together the jumble his mind had created into intelligible sentences.

“With all due respect, sir," he says, a little unsurely. "I'm aware of everything you’ve just said, but Isaac’s been through enough already. I think hiring bodyguards to shadow us wouldn’t make him feel any more at ease, and he’s already distrustful of anyone he doesn’t know.”

The Sheriff nods in acquiescence, hand rubbing at his mouth, “Of course," he says. "You know best after all. I think Isaac needs you nearer to him now in any case.”

“I’m working from home; only going into the office sometimes, so I don’t think that'll be a problem,” he says smiling faintly. “I’m looking for a helping hand though, you wouldn’t believe how hard it is to try to concentrate when Isaac's running around everywhere.”

The Sheriff straightens up a little, looking thoughtfully at Derek, "You're looking for a babysitter, then?"

“Yes. Well, no. More like an au pair?" Derek says, voice lifting at the end in hesitant question. "Seeing as I’ll still be in the house. With them. Do you know of anyone who would be interested?”

“I – yes. I suppose I do.”

Derek looks at the Sheriff expectantly, as the man's undertone ramblings continue, looking halfway between hopeful and alarmed at his own idea, after a few moments of heavy deliberation he nods gravelly and seems to have made up his mind.

“Derek, you’ve met my son Stiles?”

-

In the middle of that very same afternoon Derek pulls the camaro into the parking lot of the Grocery Store; he's just picked up Isaac from Anthony and Alma’s, taking advantage of the free hours after the meeting with the Sheriff by spending the day contacting his employees and re-arranging his company in order for it to be operated from Beacon Hills, setting up an ad that details three positions at _Hale Finance_ in the new office he's going to open in town.

He was planning to expand anyway and his recent move gives him ample opportunity to get some fresh minds in the firm.

Isaac regales his father with all sorts of details of his day spent with his Aunt Alma as Derek straps him onto the cart. Isaac speaks in half sentences, talking vividly about one thing only to stop in the middle of a sentence and proceed to talk about something completely different.

Derek listens with half an ear while Isaac babbles on about Alma’s hot chocolates, how he felt the baby kick and 'it was _so_ cool, dad. Kinda weird but _so cool!'_ , though Derek is pleased that Isaac is at least becoming more and more like his old self as the days wear on.

Three aisles later, Derek is steadily filling up the cart, trying to remember what he actually needs and making the necessary interested sounds to Isaac’s detailed comparisons between the two brands of sugary cereal clutched to his chest.

Derek is busily reading the nutritional values of something or other when Isaac speaks up.

“Dad. _Dad_ , are you listening?” Isaac asks, thrusting a cereal box in Derek’s face. “Which one?”

“That one, pup,” Derek replies absently, looking down just enough to catch Isaac rolling his eyes. Derek didn't even know that four year olds _could_ roll their eyes but he resolves to cut down on the time that Erica spends with his son nevertheless.

“You have to choose. Look, this one has lucky charms in it!”

“So take that one,” Derek reasons, reaching to take the box from Isaac.

“But this one is _chocolate,_ ” Isaac says, wiggling the _Nesquick_ box in front of Derek’s face. Isaac looks thoughtful for a minute turning his face from one box to the other repeatedly before he gets a sly look on his face, and Derek knows exactly where this is going. He can almost see Isaac’s thought processes: _Lucky charms, no; Nesquick, no; Lucky charms - no, Both._

Predictably Isaac begins, “Daddy…”

“No,” Derek says instantly, but Isaac is widening his eyes and blinking sorrowfully at him. _Isaac is way too young to be this good at manipulating people_ , Derek thinks fleetingly.

“Pretty, pretty, _pretty_ please can I have both?”

“No, Isaac.”

“Daddy, please. I’ll eat them all up, I promise,” he says, wrapping his hands around the boxes as he tries to kiss his fingers where he has the indexes crossed. He's not quite reaching, because his short arms don’t really fit around the big boxes, so instead Isaac is left staring at them with wide eyes and pursed lips, trying his damnedest to get them to meet.

Derek heroically resists the urge to laugh at his kid and tries for stern, “Choose one, or you’ll have to make do with eating adult cereal all week.”

Isaac makes a horrified face at that, and Derek smirks before going back to perusing the aisles as Isaac begins ranting breathlessly about how ‘super yucky’ adult cereals are.

Isaac stops mid-rant but Derek pays no heed to it, he's used to his son’s unusual sentence formations. But after a full solid minute of silence from Isaac, he glances down and sees him staring at something behind Derek. He has a wary look on his face, something which he's only developed recently, but there's a natural curiosity to be found in his face too. The cereal boxes lay idle in his hands, and his mouth hangs open as it does when he's trying to figure something out.

Derek follows the gaze of his son’s piqued interest and finds himself looking at two people on the other side of the aisle, standing a few feet away from them.

The man, with pale blue eyes and a light stubble peppered with white, holds a marginally empty basket. He has one hand stuffed in his jean pocket and the other linked with the arm of the girl at his side and they're both staring intently at Isaac.

The girl has the grace to blush and smile apologetically, dimples marking her cheeks prettily, when she glances up and catches Derek’s heavy frown. She tugs on, what Derek assumes is, her father’s arm and he glances at her. Then he thoughtfully gazes at Derek, nodding at him once before abruptly turning around and stalking off in the opposite direction to Derek’s glare, taking his daughter with him as she throws apologetic looks over her shoulder.

Derek automatically moves closer to Isaac on the cart, touching his face briefly with the tip of his finger to get his attention back.

“Which is it, Isaac?” Derek asks nodding at the boxes.

Isaac looks down at the boxes likes he’s forgotten all about them.

“You choose, dad,” he says and Derek can see that the two strangers have discomfited him; he can see Isaac retreating into that pensive, quiet child that has been making recurring visits lately. Derek sighs before grabbing both boxes, putting them in the cart. Isaac twists around in his seat looking at them, then back up at Derek in surprise and he breaks out in a wide bright grin, eyes scrunching up in happiness.  

“Just this once,” Derek warns as he manoeuvres the cart along the supermarket.

-

Isaac has been relatively quiet since the cereal aisle, only really speaking when asking for something or when answering Derek’s questions. Derek isn’t used to this quiet side of his son, so he keeps throwing him concerned glances, only now realising how much silence Isaac’s babbling filled. It's disconcerting to be aware of it now.

They are in the home baking section of the store twenty minutes later, Derek staring desolately at the rows and rows of products, when Isaac’s hand moves to cover one of the hands Derek has on the cart, Derek presses his thumb soothingly over Isaac’s hand and briefly glances down at him, promptly doing a double take at Isaac’s expression.

He hasn’t made a sound of distress but the anguish is clear to see in his face. His blue eyes are wide and round and fixed on something just beyond Derek’s line of vision. Isaac looks more and more agitated as the seconds tick by.

Derek turns around and once again claps eyes on the two strangers from before, this time standing closer to the two of them. Their basket is pretty much filled to the brim now and the man is holding a packet of flour in his free hand, but the two are staring unabashedly at Isaac. Once the girl is aware of Derek’s own gaze she whips back and stares at the products behind her as if busily perusing them.

Anger and vexation makes Derek’s blood run hot in his veins; he glowers hard at the couple even as the man begins to approach and when his companion notices that the man is moving, she turns back around whippet fast and tries to grab his arm as she hisses, “Dad, no …”

Derek turns fully and places himself between the man and Isaac, effectively making sure that the man stops more than an arm’s reach of Isaac. The man’s daughter bumps into his arm when he stops abruptly, and simply refuses to look up, her cheeks burning red as her gaze fixates on the linoleum floor of the store and she fiddles with the bottom of the long scarf tied about her neck.

“Is there a reason you keep staring at my kid?” Derek demands, brows furrowing tightly; the man silently stares at Derek with a considerate gaze and Derek feels the stirrings of recognition in his gut the longer he stares at him. “Are you fucking kidding me? Why the _hell_ were you staring at my son?”

“It’s Derek, right?” The man smiles, and _oh god._ Derek recognises that smile, would know it even if he was stuck smack-bang in the middle of hell for the next forty years. Suddenly, Isaac’s apprehension makes all sorts of sense, dread accumulates in the bottom of his stomach in an iced slither of consternation and he freezes. “Derek Hale, yeah?”

The other man keeps smiling, oblivious to Derek’s inner turmoil, or maybe he is and he keeps going anyway.

“Which means _this_ must be Isaac,” he says and he goes to pat Isaac’s nest of curls from where his head is peeking curiously from behind Derek, Derek moves in front of his son and warns the other man off with a furious look. The man straightens up with an understanding look on his face.

“Ah," he says, pressing his lips together with a saddened nod. "Getting ahead of myself, aren’t I?”

Derek offers no reply to that and instead frowns at the man, hoping desperately that they'll both just _go away_.

“I’m Chris, Kate’s brother but judging by the look on your face I’m assuming you already know that. This is my daughter, Allison,” he gestures to the girl beside him and then he pauses, gaze dropping to the slight discolouration on the inside of Isaac’s wrist, his gaze hops back up to Isaac’s face as if checking for the now-faded bruises. “For what it’s worth, I _am_ sorry for the pain she’s caused Isaac.”

Kate and her brother were estranged long before she and Derek got together, and so he'd never met Chris. Derek had forgotten all about Chris’ existence, to be completely honest, and of course the very family he didn’t want to associate with ever again just so happened to be located in Beacon Hills.

Kate never spoke much of her family, and whenever the subject of Chris came up, she dismissed his existence with a wave of her hand and an easy, “Oh, him? Dad and I haven’t spoken to him in years.”

Gerard is the only Argent family member that Derek has met; he has a personality that just screams  _kindly old grandfather_. Though Derek has been in his company long enough to recognise it for the charade that it really is, beneath appearances Gerard is a sharp man with a steely eyes and a predilection for thinly-veiled threats towards Derek. There's a mutual aversion and distrust between the both of them which they brushed aside firstly, for Kate’s sake and then for Isaac’s.

Grandpa Argent simply adored Isaac; showering him with gifts on his birthday, at Christmas and every moment in between. He doted on Isaac when they spent Thanksgiving with him playing old board games and the like as Derek sat simultaneously watching the game and keeping an eye on Isaac, and Kate quietly seethed from beside Derek about spending another Christmas at the Hales'. She never sat quite close enough to touch but it was always close enough to maintain a semblance of happiness.

Gerard had made up with Chris and his wife somewhere around Isaac’s second birthday but Kate didn’t even try.

“I’ve got my boys,” she’d laughed when she was on one of her better days. “What more do I need?”

Derek's brought back to the present when Chris quietly speaks again, “I just wanted to meet my nephew.”

He steps away with a smile towards Isaac and a nod for Derek, leaving the opposite way that he came. The girl, Allison, lingers around and smiles tentatively at Derek.

“Hi,” she says. Nervousness tainting her voice though Derek can see the determination glinting her dark eyes. “I’m sorry, for the staring and the uh,  _everything_. He’s gorgeous,” she smiles at Isaac. “Sorry again.”

And then she’s sprinting away to join her father at the end of the aisle.

He turns to Isaac who is looking quite as baffled as he feels. “Just our luck, right kid?”

-

Derek has no illusions that introducing Stiles to Isaac will go well all things considered, but he harbours a smidgeon of hope that they will get along because Derek is really super _done_ with the combination of Isaac and trying to manage a successful financial company and Erica whirling in and out of the house trying to decorate.

Now, Derek loves Isaac, he really does, even when his son creates havoc with his mad and often ill-timed ideas. He pokes and prods at Derek’s carefully constructed bubble of peace with his demands to 'watch _The Jungle Book_ with me, Dad,' and his cries of 'I’m superman, daddy, look!' and by having impromptu cuddle-fests which lead to Derek spilling soda all over the newly printed presentation sheets sitting neatly on the kitchen table ready to be faxed over to the city office.

So Derek thanks his lucky stars when, on the following Tuesday, Stiles Stilinski arrives promptly at his door at six in the evening. He'd met Stiles a couple of days prior to organise his hiring, an informal sort of interview that turned into lunch and led to Derek hiring Stiles on the spot.

Derek dares to say that the two had developed into a friendly acquaintance, being that Derek at least trusted Stiles enough to be around his son.

Isaac had been exiled to the living room while Derek was making dinner, and is currently lost in a sea of blankets on one of the armchairs, watching a nature documentary about porcupines; Derek has long since learned to just not question his son’s weirdness anymore.

“Hey, man,” Stiles greets, he has a bright grin when Derek opens the door, he’s wearing all black everything: skinny jeans, a sweater and sneakers but has a bright purple woollen hat pulled over his hair. He looks absolutely ridiculous.

“If you were going for stealth," Derek says in lieu of a greeting, stepping back to allow Stiles space to walk in. "You’re not really cutting it.”

Stiles’ laugh is bright and loud and he says, “I was preparing for the job, y’know? Gotta be prepared for everything Isaac throws my way. Literally; I've heard children can be vicious.”

Derek lifts an eyebrow, “Are you going to come in or what?”

“You’re seriously not still mad at me for the whole serial killer comment thing are you?" Stiles frowns kiddingly. "I thought we'd moved past that. I mean, c'mon, you still hired me. Though I don’t particularly know why, since our first meeting was one of the most terrible meetings in my twenty one years of life, just so you know. To be fair though, you did almost give me a coronary, so I’m not totally at- hey there, buddy.”

Stiles switches conversation so fast, as he fixes his eyes on someone behind Derek, that it takes him a second to catch up.

Isaac is stood just outside the living room, likely lured by the sound of his father speaking to someone at the door, glaring with vigour at Stiles and completely impervious to the curls tumbling over his eyes.

Stiles’ smiles falters a little at the angry, silent reception Isaac graces him with. Isaac sniffs in a delicate, derisive manner at Stiles’ hat and slinks back into the living room not a second later.

“He really _is_ your son isn’t he?” Stiles tries to joke.

“He’s not very good with people,” Derek says abandoning the door and stalking into the kitchen, he hears Stiles close the door and mutter a quiet ' _oh_ _really? I wonder where he got that from.'_

“Especially after his mom,” Derek continues once he’s in the kitchen, he circles the breakfast bar, to carry on with dinner preparation, and watches the dawning realisation bloom on Stiles’ face.

“Oh,” he says pulling off his hat and sitting down slowly on one of the two stools on the opposite side of the bar.

“I’m assuming you know what happened,” he flicks his eyes towards Stiles.

Stiles bites his lip and squints his eyes, “I may or may not have taken a gratuitous peek at your file when it was, quite frankly, lying there so provocatively on my father's desk.”

Derek freezes in the middle of slicing an onion; he refuses to look up at Stiles. “So you know about-?”

There is a beat of silence and the implication of the unsaid words lingering in the air between them is all too clear.

“Everything,” Stiles quietly confirms. Derek can feel his cheeks heating up in a flush, fingers tightening around the handle of the knife he's holding and hears Stiles take a deep breath before he reaches to take the knife from Derek. His fingers brush, briefly but reassuringly, against Derek’s before he's pulling the wooden board towards himself.

“I’ll finish this up,” Stiles says. “You can take care of the pans on the stovetop.”

-

They work pretty well together, Stiles and Derek. Stiles is pretty focused and attentive when he’s not distracted by the extraneous words tumbling out of his mouth and he seems pretty comfortable in the kitchen.

“I used to cook for my dad long before Freda was in the picture,” he explains when he catches Derek watching him considerately.

That is not _precisely_ the reason that Derek is staring at Stiles, but he'll gladly take any excuse handed to him. It's been a long time since Derek has felt even the briefest stirrings of attraction for anyone.

He and Kate hadn’t slept together for over a year, he hadn’t kissed her for longer than that and he hadn't felt any sort of attraction towards her in the intervening time.

Objectively, Derek knows that Kate is a bombshell of a woman, but the person she had developed into in the course of their relationship leaves something to be desired. The love between him and Kate had died out long before they had stopped sleeping together. And when they had slept together, each instance together was sharp, rough and bitter. They moved with none of the familiarity of their early lovemaking and instead ducked kisses and endearments as each sought their own individual pleasure.

But Stiles is something different. He's beautiful in a way that isn't noticeable at first, in a way that sneaks up on you all at once before you see how truly gorgeous he is.

There's a disparity in the refined sort of beauty that encompasses him, with his pale skin, his dark hair and the striking burnished bronze colour of his eyes, and the inept fluidity he has. He talks, not only with his hands, but with his entire being; pulling faces that defy physics whilst still managing to look handsome.

Stiles is also _nice_ for no other reason than that he is a kind person. Selfless benevolence is something that has been missing in Derek’s life for a long time, and Stiles seems to have plenty to offer.

Stiles’ phone buzzes right as Derek is tossing the salad, a comfortable lull in the conversation between them. He checks his phone absently and Derek has to force down the flutter of disappointment as a slow, lazy smile spreads on Stiles’ face. He quickly types something back before waving his phone at Derek.

“Boyfriend,” he explains. “He’s always sending me stupid jokes from the internet.” Derek can see a trace of sadness shadowing Stiles’ eyes and he frowns. He opens his mouth, about to ask if he is okay, when Stiles pauses unsurely at Derek’s expression.

“You – It doesn’t bother you does it?" Stiles asks, expression clouding over. "Because if it does then I can’t work for you and I strongly suggest you take a good, long look at your life choices, buddy, because –”

“Stiles,” Derek says. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“Oh.”

And then because Derek has no self-preservation at all he casually adds, “I’ve been with guys before.”

Stiles gulps, averting his eyes, “Oh.”         

Derek successfully hides his smirk as he goes past Stiles, crossing the hall into the living room where Isaac is avidly watching the _Kingdom of the Oceans_ special on Nat Geo to tell him to wash up for dinner. Ten minutes later Isaac deigns to grace Stiles and Derek with his presence and sits opposite the both of them on the table.

To say that dinner is awkward would be a vicious understatement. The bulk of the tension seems to radiate from Isaac’s side of the table; he eats in near silence, ignores pretty much all attempts Stiles makes at conversation and only mumbles whenever Derek speaks to him.

By the middle of dinner Derek is exasperated by his son’s conduct. When once again Isaac ignores Stiles’ question, simply looking at him in boredom before resuming his eating, Derek has had enough.

“Isaac,” he snaps and Isaac turns towards him, nonchalantly eating a sugar snap as he hums in question in his father’s general direction. “Care to tell us why you’re being so rude?”

Isaac frowns before resolutely staring at his plate, mumbling incoherently with a pout firmly on his face.

“ _Isaac!"_  Derek reprimands rigidly even as Stiles quietly protests from beside him, _'It’s okay Derek, really.'_

The table lapses into silence again for a few moments, Derek is fuming by the time that Stiles speaks.

“Hey, Isaac you know that I’m not here to take your dad away from you right?” Stiles says carefully.

Derek is startled by the thought as he looks in surprise from Stiles to Isaac, he hadn’t even considered that.

“I’m here for _you_ , buddy,” Stiles smiles hesitantly but Isaac doesn’t answer, the only way in which they know that he is listening at all is the minute twitch in his eyebrows, and how he doesn’t look quite as tense as he did five minutes before.

At the end of dinner, Isaac sulks all the way back to the living room and ignores Stiles’ “See you later, Isaac!”

“I’m sorry,” Derek says as Stiles fits his woolly hat over his head at the door. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”

Stiles’ good cheer has somewhat diminished throughout the course of dinner but he still remains determined.

“Don’t worry about it, Derek," he says. "I understand. He’ll come round soon enough; you’ll see. It’s almost impossible not to fall under the Stilinski charm.”

Stiles has no idea how true that is, but instead Derek says “How did you know what to say to him?”

“Let’s just say that I know a little bit about the feeling of _strangers_ and _taking fathers away_ ,” he smiles ruefully, tapping his nose.

“Your dad’s wife?”

“Freda. Yeah, she’s awesome but I wasn’t particularly happy about finding out about her existence at first, y’know?” Stiles laughs. “Thanks for dinner, Derek. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Bright and early.”

-

As soon as he’s waved Stiles off and closed the door Derek makes his way to the living room, storming past Isaac, who has re-buried himself in his nest of blankets and switches off the TV. Isaac, who has his eyes trained on the television, makes a noise of protest from behind him but instantly subdues and looks stupendously guilty when Derek turns his thunderous expression on him.

“You’d think I never taught you any manners, Isaac.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles uncomfortably.

“Really? Are you sure about that? Because I’m not entirely convinced that you seem all that sorry,” Derek says. “And it’s not me you should be apologising to in any case. That was _very_ rude, what you did just then.”

Isaac doesn’t say anything else but he fiddles shakily with the sheets tucked around him, Derek sighs.

“Go wash for bed.”

“It’s not my bedtime yet,” Isaac says quietly.

“It is when you’ve been so badly behaved today. Go to bed, I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

Isaac hesitates for a moment and then opens his mouth to argue, “Dad.”

“ _Now_ , Isaac,” Derek snaps and his son scurries out of the room. 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, do you remember when I said that this fic was going to be happier? Yeah, no.  
> I've just finished my outline and I am so sorry.  
> Isaac was watching Kingdom of the Oceans – which actually is a four part special in Nat Geo so I decided to add that in because like I said I keep making analogies to water and because of a loose connection to my title. I'm an idiot who thinks she’s funny. I'm sorry.


	4. Flaws

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I make lots of references to clothes in this chapter, that's just probably so I can scour The Sartorialist every single day and call it 'research'. 
> 
> I hope you like this chapter, it's a bit more mellow and contemplative than my previous ones I think but I really did enjoy writing it!

[ _You have always worn your flaws upon your sleeve and I have always buried them deep beneath the ground._ ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1E36WU9Wzf4)

_-_

It occurs to Derek later, as he’s washing up the remnants of dinner, that Isaac had probably scurried away to the bathroom so quickly because he was scared.

_Fuck._

He locks the front door and checks it as he realises that Isaac probably thought that Derek had been a first row member of the _Kate Argent School of Discipline_ and was thus going to scold him _á la mode_. Of course he would think that.

The whole incident was not that far off in their past, a couple of weeks was never going to be enough to erase the amount of hurt and fear that Isaac had gone through that night and however many nights previously.

Derek might be trying to redirect Isaac’s thoughts to their new life, by carrying on regardless and trying not to panic because Kate _still_ hasn't been found yet, but Isaac still has night terrors.

Some nights he wakes up terrified and yelling out for Derek, his heart beating hard and wild as he tries to escape the confines of his new bed. Those nights, Derek holds his son close, desperately whispering _‘it’s okay, it’s okay now, baby’_ into his hair before ripping out the sodden bed sheets, changing Isaac’s pyjamas and taking Isaac to his own room, where they curled up; falling into a vague restlessness as Isaac sniffles back to sleep.

In truth Derek has no idea what he's doing. He's going in blind in this and he doesn’t have anyone else to fall back on. He doesn’t want to mess things up but he can’t _not_ do anything. So after he re-checks the doors and makes sure all the windows are firmly locked, and he's heading down the hall towards Isaac’s room, he resolves to call the psychiatrist’s office first thing in the morning.

Sure enough when Derek steps into his son’s room, already fully decked out with books, toys and stuffed animals courtesy of Erica, he finds Isaac sitting on his bed beneath the covers waiting anxiously for Derek.  

Derek’s heart feels too small and all together too big as he watches Isaac hesitantly lift the corner of his duvet, shuffling over to make room for his dad as Derek lumbers over to him. With his bedtime book is placed neatly on his bedside table and open at the bookmark, as well as Benji the Penguin tucked securely beside him, it seems that Isaac trusts his father after all.

Derek slides in and pulls Isaac into his lap, where he automatically fits his head on his father’s shoulder and relaxes as Derek pulls the duvet over him.

“Have you brushed your teeth?”

“Yeah.”

Derek waits; he knows how this is going to parse out. Whenever he reprimands Isaac it always ends up like this, in silence until Isaac gathers up enough courage to speak to Derek.

Indeed, moments later Isaac speaks.  

“Are you still mad at me?” he asks.

Derek heaves a sigh, “Yeah, Isaac. I’m still very disappointed with you.”

“'M sorry.”

“Being sorry doesn’t erase the fact that you upset Stiles,” Derek explains gently. “Especially since he's going to be your new nanny.”

Isaac pouts, his eyebrows furrowing heavily, “I don’t want Stiles.”

Derek kicks off his shoes and settles more comfortably in the middle of the bed and manoeuvres Isaac so that he is perched in front of him, with his feet against his father’s chest and his back against Derek’s legs.

“Well, I do," he sighs as Isaac crosses his arms and pointedly does not look at Derek. “He’s going to come to work for us, Isaac, and you have to be nice.”

“No,” he protests again. “I don’t need a nanny.”

Derek smoothes Isaac’s hair, getting a child-sized glare for his efforts. Despite himself, Derek huffs a laugh at his son’s antics. “I need someone to look after you when I work, pup.”

At this Isaac sulks even more and mutters angrily, “Can’t you be my nanny? I don't want him.”

“And how's daddy supposed to work when I have a little monster running around everywhere?”

“I’ll be good, daddy, I swear. I’ll be really _, really_ quiet,” Isaac rushes to bid. Derek sighs, uncrossing Isaac’s arms and holding on to his wrists as his tiny hands wrap around Derek’s thumbs.

“That’s not–, I don’t want you to be _quiet_ ,” Derek sighs dejectedly. “Why don’t you want Stiles, 'Zac?”

Isaac is silent at this; he refuses to speak and ducks his head even as Derek tries to catch his eyes.

“Isaac?” he prompts.

After a long moment Isaac becomes tension personified and Derek can hear low growls barely contained in his small body and he says, “You’re _my_ dad. You’re supposed to stay here, with me.”

And then quieter still, “I don't wan't you to go away with him. I want you to stay _here_.”

Derek brushes his thumb against Isaac’s cheek where it has coloured red with exertion, his eyes are blinking fast to try and contain his tears. Derek pulls him towards him, cocooning his son within his arms. Isaac puts his head on Derek’s chest and pushes his face into his shirt.

“I’m not going anywhere, Isaac. You know that right? I’m never going to leave you.”

Isaac pulls away from Derek, “Promise?”

Derek kisses his promise on his crossed index fingers once, then switches his fingers and kisses them again. “I promise.”

But Isaac still isn’t convinced; he lifts an eyebrow and says, “Cross _both_ your hearts and hope to die?”

And once Derek makes a crossing motion on both sides of his chest Isaac grins bright and wide and throws his hands around his father in an embrace.

"'Kay,” he whispers.

-

Derek realises, as Isaac tucks himself back into his father’s chest with the duvet around them, that he hasn’t spoken to Isaac about Kate or anything that happened that night. Truthfully, he thought that pretending that it never happened might be the best way of dealing with it. He had no idea that Isaac would be so possessive, but he should have expected it, after his son’s trauma.

In actual fact, Derek never realised how it might look to Isaac for Derek to bring in a stranger to their new home so soon after the reshuffling of their lives. Despite, and perhaps because of, Isaac’s young age Derek hadn’t been too careful in hiding his attraction towards Stiles.

He mistakenly and rather brazenly assumed that Isaac wouldn’t be able to pick up on the meanings of Derek’s lingering gazes, and perhaps he didn't but even so, Isaac doesn't understand that Kate and Derek hadn’t been together for a damn long time; to him it seems that his parents had stopped being together less than a month before.

It's a hard adjustment to make, and while Derek anticipated that it'd be tough on Isaac, he never really considered how harrowing the whole ordeal really would be. Derek isn't particularly known for making good decisions in his personal life, rather he's more known for making rash decisions first and then thinking of the consequences much, much later.

Case in point, his relationship with Kate, and more recently uprooting and relocating his son half-way across the country, detaching him from his old life without so much as a warning.

Derek doesn’t regret what he did, but the guilt stems more from the fact that he has no way to prepare Isaac for the emotional turmoil he's going through. But despite all of the waves of guilt encircling his heart and constricting his chest, he can’t really bring himself to talk to Isaac about it.

He knows, he _knows_ that he should but Derek isn’t quite ready to face the fact that he wasn’t there to help his son when he needed him the most, the added guilt from that selfishness just coalesces into one huge sea of culpability deep in his heart. So instead he rubs his son’s back and presses kisses into his hair and hopes desperately that that will be enough for now. That in the cosset of love he has built with son in their new home, Isaac will be safe.

As Isaac’s breath begins to slow and even out against him, and they sit wrapped up in comfort and tiredness, their eyes drifting shut, Derek remembers that he's supposed to be cross with Isaac.

“Isaac?” Derek says even though his voice is low and lax. His son answers back in a sleepy hum, like he's teetering on the edge of consciousness. Derek nuzzles his cheek on the top of Isaac’s head. “You’re still in trouble.”

And just before Derek succumbs to the surge of unconsciousness, he feels Isaac heave a deep remorseful sigh.

“I know.” 

Derek huffs languidly into his curls, kisses his head once more and falls into slumber.

-

When Derek is roused from sleep it's due to the incessant knocks coming from somewhere near the front of the apartment. Derek's a bit disorientated when he opens his eyes, eyes squinted against the rays of early sunlight drifting leisurely across the room’s navy blue carpets.

He’s still dressed in yesterday’s clothes and Isaac is still deep in sleep splayed across his chest, where they had migrated to lying on the bed. Derek blinks hard, attempting to put Isaac down when he realises that there's someone at the door. Isaac's a clingy sleeper on the best of days, and even now he clings tighter to Derek and snuffles into his shirt.

It takes a few moments for Derek to successfully prise Isaac off of him; eventually he succeeds and rubs the heel of his hand into his eye as he pads over to the front door. He's belatedly aware of his cell phone buzzing somewhere in the vicinity of the living room but ignores it and looks through the peep-hole instead.

He begins to slowly, methodically open the door when he realises that it’s Stiles. He’s stood on the other side, cell phone pressed tightly to his ear and a backpack hitched on one of his shoulders.

“Derek!” Stiles exclaims, hanging up before quietening at Derek’s wince. “I thought you decided to just not hire me anymore.”

Derek groggily grunts an apology and inclines his head towards the hallway, “Time is it?”

“Quarter past eight,” Stiles breezes past him and stands just inside the door.

“You look well rested,” he quips, a smile on his lips when Derek trudges past him and into the kitchen.

Derek can only imagine what he looks like, a cursory pass of his hand on his face reveals fine pillow marks criss-crossing his cheek from the night before - his stubble is out in full force and his hair is frizzy and sticking up every which way.

It really says something about how far gone on Stiles he is because he’s completely comfortable with looking like he’s been thrice dragged through a bush backwards while Stiles himself looks as fresh as a daisy.

Derek blearily glares at Stiles as they sit on the table opposite each other but Stiles grins brightly as he deposits his bag on the floor, announcing with a crinkle of his nose, “You still look adorable.”

It’s silly and teasing but Derek can’t help the warm flush that floods his body over Stiles’ words. He bites the inside of his lip to discourage the soft smile playing about his mouth from growing larger and giving him away.

They sit there smiling stupidly at each other for a long moment - and then it gets awkward. They just sit there, in silence, decidedly _not_ looking at each other. Stiles is biting his lip and glancing around the kitchen while Derek attempts to flatten his hair before he begins to pick uselessly at the bottom of his rumpled tee-shirt, scouring his brain for something, _anything_ , to say.

In the end it's Stiles who asks, “Do you want me to make some coffee?”

“Oh god,” Derek rushes to say. “Yes.”

He’s grateful that Stiles breaks the silence, and for the small smile he offers him as he gets up from the table. It takes Derek a second to process the light, warm expression Stiles is giving him, and a second more to actually re-arrange his face to actually look inviting and pleasant, rather than grumpy and awkward, but by this point Stiles’ attention is already on the coffee maker on the counter.

As Stiles begins making their coffees Derek reflects how domestic it all is, and in his befuddled bed-head he imagines what it’d be like to have something like this every day, and then he promptly shakes his head and immediately shuts down that line of thinking because Derek has only known Stiles for a little more than a _week_ , he has Isaac to think about and he's just ended the worst relationship of his life.

So, no.

No.

No, thank you.

No.

With these thoughts swimming around in his head, he only hears Stiles the third time that he asks, “Derek? Your coffee?”

He looks up at Stiles’ amused expression, belatedly realising that his own face is furrowed in a deep frown during the whole time he was thinking, when he was _refusing_ to think about Stiles.

“Black, three sugars,” he grunts, then he remembers his manners. “Please.”

Stiles merely smiles again and shakes his head as he complies with Derek’s coffee order. “Adorable.”

Sometime later Stiles is riffling through the cupboards and explaining to Derek the research he undertook on the dietary needs of a four year old the night before, when Derek can hear said four year old opening his bedroom door and begin to shuffle laboriously down the hall.

He appears in the door way an instant later and looks up towards the counter Stiles is leaning against, cradling a mug of coffee and wearing an absurdly hopeful expression as he and Isaac regard each other.

Isaac blinks at him for a second, and then turns his back on him to walk towards Derek who is sitting at the table. From his peripheral vision Derek can see Stiles’ expression falter and fall; he ducks his head and his cheeks colour slightly as he studiously stirs his coffee with a teaspoon.

Derek catches Isaac’s eyes as he trudges over and quirks an eyebrow, Isaac stops in his tracks and seems to remember his conversation with his father the night before. He sighs, turns back and delivers the most unenthusiastic, “G'morning, Mister Stiles,” known to man.

Stiles’ head instantly whips up and he stares disbelievingly at Isaac before he recovers himself and grins, “Good Morning.”

Isaac spares him one more glance, his eyes lingering wistfully on Stiles’ [zombie superman tee-shirt](http://www.sohos.co.uk/criminal-damage/criminal-damage-black-zombie-hero-superman-t-shirt_pd567.htm) before climbing up on his seat; he looks at his father and he smirks. Derek's not even going to attempt figuring out where the hell Isaac learned _that_ from.

“You’re still in trouble,” Derek says instead, getting up to grab his charging laptop on the counter. He grabs a juice box whilst he's there and pours Isaac a bowl of _Nesquick,_ ignoring his son as he pouts miserably.

Even though Isaac has gone back to ignoring Stiles, the latter is still beaming. He catches Derek’s eye as he’s grabbing a spoon and says, “It’s a start, right?”

Derek is completely floored by Stiles’ look and finds himself nodding stiffly, haltingly detaching himself from Stiles’ presence to go back to the table.

“No dessert for you on Saturday,” he tells Isaac as he places his bowl in front of him. Isaac’s mouth drops open in shock.

“But-”

“Argue," Derek warns lightly as he drops back down on his chair and pulls his laptop towards him. "And you’ll be without dessert for a whole extra day.”

He knows that he will probably just give Isaac sweets throughout the weekend anyway, but for now the threat of _one whole day_ without dessert is enough to reprimand him.

It’s only after a few minutes of Derek affectionately watching Isaac bitterly shove spoonful after spoonful of cereal into his mouth that he turns slightly and catches Stiles watching him fondly.

He starts and blushes when their eyes lock together but he doesn’t look away.

-

As Derek is nursing the dregs of his cup of coffee and reading over the news on his laptop, he hears a key slot into the front door. He tenses instantly and his eyes dart to Isaac, quietly eating his cereal and then to Stiles.

“Are you expecting anyone?”

But before Derek can open his mouth to reply, the door opens and he can hear a set of high heels on the tiled hallway.

“Derek?” he hears a voice call out.

He relaxes instantly and Erica materialises in the kitchen not a moment later, riotous blonde curls spilling over her shoulders. She’s holding one of Derek’s coats ,from the stand next to the door, and an atelier garment-bag expertly draped over the arm of her long-sleeved powder-blue and grey [two-toned dress](http://images.thesartorialist.com/thumbnails/2013/03/92312BluGry0368Web.jpg). “Good Morning!”

Isaac makes a series of pleased sounds, and Derek thinks he might actually be speaking to her but he can’t be sure that it constitutes as a language if it’s garbled through a mouthful of chocolate cereal.

“Hi, honey," Erica greets him, an indulgent smile on her face as she turns to place the garment bag and coat on the stool. She startles a little at Stiles stood by the coffee machine, poised to pour another cup. “Stiles! Hey, what are you doing here?”

Stiles is still looking bafflement, brows furrowed as if trying to figure out how Erica and Derek know each other but after a few silent seconds he smiles at her still slightly confused. “I’m the new nanny.”

“Oh,” she nods, but Stiles is still peering at her with confusion. “I’m Derek’s Scott," she explains with a wave of a hand and Stiles face clears with understanding.

“Lucky you,” he grins.

Erica smirks knowingly and then looks back over to Derek and holds her hands out turning elegantly on the heel of her CELINEs, “How do I look?”

“Radiant,” he grunts over the rim of his mug. “What are you doing here?”

Erica scoffs, sends her blonde curls tumbling over her shoulders and rolls her eyes. “It’s Wednesday, Derek.”

He raises his eyebrows, looks blankly at her. She sighs exasperatedly, stalking towards the coffee machine. Stiles slides out of the way just in time, catching Derek’s eye with an amused look.

As Erica prods the button for the coffee maker and pulls out a mug from the cupboard she explains, “Wednesday - as in the day you’re having a meeting with your investors? As well as having a meeting with your real estate agent for your new office? We've talked about this. _Extensively_.”

Derek grabs Isaac’s juice box from where he's unsuccessfully trying to jab the straw into the opening, and does it himself.

“You’re already here," he says. "So why don’t I just sign the papers and you can just leave?”

“Because the papers are in my office, Der. Now hurry up, we need to leave.”

A thought strikes Derek and instead he asks, “How did you get in?”

“I used a key, Derek,” and he's slightly annoyed by the fact that Erica doesn't even bother to turn around and yet he can still _feel_ the eye roll.

“I’m well aware that you used a key, Erica,” he huffs. “How is it that the key is in your possession?”

This time she glances shrewdly at Stiles before she aims a look over her shoulder, “I made myself one, obviously. Now stop talking and go get dressed. I even brought you a suit.”

“Erica, we’ve talked about this. Personal space is an actual thing that exists.”

“It’s an emergency key and you were going to give me one anyway, don’t even lie.”

She does have a point, Derek concedes, so of course he ignores her and returns his attention to his laptop screen.

“Derek!”

When Derek doesn’t immediately move Erica fixes him with a pleading look, he _hates_ seeing that look on her face because it immediately reminds him of the time in the seventh grade, when he saw her having a seizure for the first time and she begged him not to tell.

He can see now the faint blue tinge beneath her eyes, hidden from sight with concealer and invisible to anyone who isn’t looking for it; he sighs knowing he is going to do whatever she wants regardless of his complaining.

Derek abandons his laptop and moves to put his mug in the sink, kissing her cheek and saying, “You _do_ look radiant.”

Once Derek gets out of the shower, fifteen minutes later, and heads into his bedroom he can hear Erica and Stiles quietly chatting in the kitchen, though he can barely make out the hushed sounds. He fleetingly wonders how they know each other but he opens the garment bag instead of thinking too much about it and pulls out his day outfit.

Inside is a white dress shirt pinstriped in periwinkle blue, a textured cream tie, a pinstriped suit and, bizarrely, a blue cardigan.

Convinced this is some sort of sartorial mistake, Derek opens the door of his bedroom, sticks his head into the corridor and yells, “Erica? Why is there’s a cardigan in here?”

Moments later, her head pops out of the kitchen doorway and she pulls a face at him, “You didn’t even shave," she comments morosely, before she pitches her voice higher. "Is your hair nicely tousled now?”

He just looks at her and silently communicates how deeply unimpressed he is with her teasing and she rolls her eyes, amusement clear in her face.

“It’s supposed to be there, genius, wear it on top of your shirt and tie but beneath your blazer. Okay?”

Before Derek is given a chance to reply, Erica has already moved back into the kitchen and launched straight back into her conversation with Stiles.

Naturally Derek just does what she wants, sighing deeply and grumbling to himself about looking like a fool. After he tucks his tie into the buttoned cardigan and finally looks into the standing mirror in the corner of the room, he's actually pleasantly surprised.

The suit is fitted, dipping in at his waist with the hems of his trousers are tailored to drop perfectly over his polished shoes. The cardigan itself highlights the undertones of blue in the paleness of his eyes. He pulls on his dark dress shoes and heads towards the kitchen.

He feels a little smug when he catches Stiles’ eyes rake over his form as he walks in, Stiles instantly flushes when he catches Derek’s eyes but Derek has scarcely enough time to bask in the feeling of being checked out before Erica descends on him like a moth to a flame.

She unbuttons the blazer completely, unfastens one of the buttons on his cardigan, fiddles with his tie and generally buzzes about him like a clucking mother hen until he pulls on his overcoat, a silk handkerchief already tucked into the breast pocket.

“Stunning,” Erica pronounces at his [final look](http://www.thesartorialist.com/photos/in-the-window-at-doriani-milan/). “You actually look like a financial director now, as opposed to a sullen, overgrown hobo.”

Isaac, from where he’s subjugated Derek’s previous seat at the table, briefly looks up to direct a jaunty _two thumbs up_ at his dad, before his attention is recaptured by the wonders of the heavily censored internet in front of him. But then his head pops up again after he’s processed Derek’s outerwear.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

Derek looks over to his son’s pinched face and he instantly feels terrible.

“I just need to go into the office for a while, pup.”

“You said you weren’t going to leave,” Isaac accuses, eyebrows drawn unhappily over his eyes as his mouth forms a small moue.

“It's just for a few hours.”

“Can’t I come with you?” he asks.

“Absolutely not,” Erica declares from where she’s stood just behind Derek much to the chagrin of Isaac and the amusement of Stiles.

“It’s not _bring-your-kid-to-work-day,_ Derek, investors aren’t known to appreciate rugrats running around when they’re trying to conduct business, no matter how sweet they happen to be.”

“And Isaac needs to develop a non-dependable relationship with Derek, and vice versa, now that it’s just the two of them,” Stiles chimes in, and then at Erica’s pointed look he shrugs, “What? I research.”

“Isaac, you’re just going to have to stay here, okay?” Derek says but when Isaac shakes his head morosely, Derek turns back to look at Stiles and Erica, they quickly understand and walk out of the kitchen in tandem. 

He approaches Isaac as the two leave the room, he picks his son up and tips his chin back so he can look at him.

“Hey," Derek says. "I’m only going to be gone for a little while.”

“But you said -”

“What I _said,"_ Derek stresses gently. "Was that I wasn’t ever going to leave you, and I’m not. Because there is no one I love more in the world than you, okay? But that doesn’t mean I’m going to be able to stay at home all the time, much as I’d like to.”

Isaac processes this slowly, nodding slowly even in his obvious displeasure. Eventually Isaac presses his forehead to the line of Derek’s jaw, wrapping his arms around his father’s neck. “You’ll be home soon?”

“Very soon,” Derek promises.

After a few long moments, Isaac lifts his head, rubbing at his forehead with his small hand, and he smiles a little, “Prickly.”

Realising that this is Isaac’s way of conceding, Derek kisses the curls atop his head and deposits him on the chair.

“So you’ll stay?” Isaac nods and Derek further questions “And you’ll be good for Stiles?”

The nod this time is hesitant to start but after a second Isaac’s head is emphatically bobbing. Derek ruffles his son’s hair and goes to find Erica and Stiles.

-

The rest of the day is, unsurprisingly, dull. Unequivocally dull.

Derek sits at the head of the oval glass conference table in his new office and tries his damnedest to listen to the investors, he really, truly does; he engages with them, brings forth his polished veneer of self-assuredness.

He doesn’t really have to try that hard - here's where Derek is in his element. He demonstrates his presentation with calm fluidity, an easy charisma that's only really present when he is talking like this.

But when the executives divulge in their own private and considering discussions, at several intervals during the meeting, Derek can’t help but worry.

He wonders whether Stiles and Isaac are getting along, whether they are safe at home, whether they are missing him.

Isaac that is, not Stiles. Not.

Stiles.

The meeting with the investors lasts an hour of his afternoon. The investors are part of the board of Executives for _Hale and Associates_ , his mom’s law firm, but Derek had called in the meeting to open a discussion on how the expansion to _his_ company would affect the financial strategies of the corporate aims of the firm.

He’d spent his morning with Erica, filling in the paperwork for the new office of _Hale Financials,_ situated right at the heart of Beacon Hills; it's a beautiful office, high into the sky, it sits on the eleventh floor of one the newest executive buildings off the main strip.

Derek sits in his personal office, devoid of his usual photographs of Isaac and the small trinkets that usually decorate it. It's a large room and his desk is backed to the wide windows that bask him in the late winter sunlight. Opposite the windows is an empty wall-wide oak bookcase that's just about ready to be filled with books, and in his tiredness Derek wistfully eyes the lavish leather sofa perched in front of it.

Instead he stares at the landline cradled in one hand and palms the business card that Sheriff Stilinski had pressed into his hand the week before. He grazes his thumb over the embossed words printed on the card.

**-**

**Marin G. Morell, Ph. D.**

**Psychoanalysis and Psychotherapy**

**-**

He bucks up the courage some twenty minutes later, waiting anxiously on the end of the line as Dr Morell’s assistant patches him though.

“Hello?” Morell's voice is pleasantly professional. Derek has been avoiding this all day but this, _professional,_ he can do. It's strangely daunting to speak to her, because she represents his past of unatoned sins being spoken out loud and faced.

She waits patiently on the other line; she can likely hear his laboured breaths. 

He closes his eyes, leans his head on the back of his leather chair. He takes in another deep breath.

“Hi, Um. My name is Derek Hale, I was directed to your services by the Sheriff.”

“Mister Derek Hale?” she asks.

“I – yeah," Derek says. "Yes.”

“I’ve been expecting your call.”

-

Derek lets himself back into his apartment a couple of hours later, when the sun is setting and the house is quiet. Turning into the living room he finds the artificial light of the television refracting softly on the two figures in the room - Isaac perched on his usual nest of blankets in the armchair, and Stiles on the sofa opposite, sitting closer to the door than to the TV.

Isaac is half-dozing, watching the two cartoon characters on-screen chase each other in hyperbolic eagerness, while Stiles sits sprawled over the sofa, his arms folded over his chest, his legs crossed and propped on the low coffee table, intently watching the screen.

He turns his head towards Derek as he enters the room and smiles languidly, “Hey.”

Derek nods at him once, depositing his briefcase by the door as he walks over to pick Isaac up. 

“Has he eaten yet?” Derek asks as Isaac curls into him and he flicks his eyes over to the wristwatch he wears. It's a little before Isaac’s bedtime but the lethargy he's displaying is enough to convince Derek that Isaac needs to sleep.

He already feels extraordinarily guilty for leaving Isaac so soon after everything that's happened, but Derek's line of business isn't one to pause in order to consider his own personal woes.  

“Yeah,” Stiles says. He stands up and runs his hand through his hair, smiling tiredly at him.

Derek can tell something is wrong as he rakes his gaze over Stiles’ face, the man looks dejected and a little resigned, but he also looks like he is trying his hardest to power through it.

“I’m just going to put him to bed,” Derek says. “Can you stay a while?”

“Sure.”

Derek carefully lays Isaac in his bed, tucking his kid into the covers. Isaac's already asleep by the time that his head comes into contact with the pillow, so all that's left for Derek to do is quietly creep back out of the room.

He finds Stiles standing nervously where Derek left him in the living room, and he quirks his eyebrows in acknowledgement when Derek re-enters the room.

“How was he today?” Derek asks.

Stiles bites his lip, “If I tell you will you promise not to be mad at him?”

That worries Derek instantly, he crosses his arms and stares Stiles down as the other man fidgets and chews on the corner of his thumb.

“Derek,” he says after a beat of silence. “C'mon, you have to promise.”

“What did he do?”

After a few tense seconds Stiles admits it grudgingly, "He didn't say a word to me all day." 

And Derek ... Derek actually has no idea how to respond to that.

Sure, he’s seen Isaac having bouts of pensiveness lately, but he’s never let it drag on for hours and hours. Derek has no idea how to even begin to approach this situation; he knows that Isaac’s greeting to Stiles that morning was for his sake but he can't fathom Isaac ignoring Stiles for an entire day.

And _Stiles_ , the other man sits down on the couch once more and dips his head into his hands heavily. Derek stands above him, awkward and useless, wanting to comfort the other man but having no idea how.

“Maybe this was a mistake,” Stiles says as he turns his head to look at Derek. “I don’t want to force him to be around someone he clearly doesn’t like. I should probably just quit.”

“No,” Derek exclaims, wincing inwardly at the forcefulness behind the word. “I mean, Isaac doesn’t _not_ like you. He just doesn’t … want you around?”

Well, fuck. 

“That’s not what I meant,” he rushes to say but Stiles is already on his feet, resignation marking his face. Derek steps forward into Stiles’ space.

“That’s not what I meant,” he tries again. “You were right. Yesterday I mean, about what you said and Isaac’s … _possessiveness_ with me. I think he just needs to adjust.”

Stiles watches him considerately, they’re close stood like this and Derek fancies that he can feel Stiles’ breath against his lips. He searches Derek’s face for a minute, before asking, "And you?"

“What about me?”

“Do you need to adjust?” Derek just blankly gazes at him, so Stiles elaborates, “I can’t imagine it’d be easy to have an almost stranger hanging around with your kid so soon after everything.”

Derek is once again surprised by the tenderness that hides within the folds of Stiles’ personality, he marvels at him for a little while before he realises that he has to actually answer. “Yeah, I – yes. I mean, It’s hard but, I want to give you a chance.”

Stiles smiles warmly at him, and then his face retains some of that familiar determination and Derek can practically see the cogs turning in his head. He nods once, mulls it over and nods twice again before he positively beams at Derek.

“I’d like that," he says. "I'd like that a lot.” 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am having a full on lady-boner for Bastille at the moment so that's why two of my chapters have been named after their songs.
> 
> I mentioned Psychotherapy in this chapter but I will get more into that in the next few chapters and I've already started my research (there are some super interesting studies just so you know!) so hopefully I'll get a good grasp on Parent-Child Psychotherapy sessions kind of thing. 
> 
> Until next week you guys!


	5. Superman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I use Stiles’ characterisation as a medium for me to unleash all of the t-shirts that I wish that I actually owned on you guys. I am not sorry for the awesomeness that you guys behold. 
> 
> Next week I will post the playlist of the fic from my youtube so that you can all judge my music tastes.

[ _But I can only write this song and tell you I’m not that strong because I’m no superman, I hope you like me as I am._ ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=otx0Bnru0dY)

-

The next day dawns crisp and light; Derek quickly hushes the booming noise of the alarm clock on his bedside table and indulges in a few stolen moments of peace buried within the layers and layers of white sheets in his bed. Waking up in Beacon Hills is always so much more different than to waking up in the bustling heat and demand of the city.

In the city there's always something to do, someone to see, business to attend to, offers to make, et cetera, et cetera. It just goes on and on. It's a never ending list of things that are of imperative importance and situatons that demand to be dealt with in the here and now. Meanwhile whenever Derek returns to Beacon he can while away the hours so easily. He can take his time here, he can mark his days in the rise and set of the sun and everything seems so much slower here, so much more _effortless_.

Beacon Hills is like a fresh breath of air in his lungs, and if he closes his eyes in the perfect stillness of his bedroom he can smell the oncoming spring: the air carries with it a scintillating scent, like rosewater, scented oils, sand and citrus. It's completely intoxicating.

There is a brisk rap on knuckles on the heavy wood of the front door, shortly thereafter, that echoes throughout the apartment. In the privacy of his room and sole company, Derek allows himself to smile a little at just the thought of seeing Stiles. He thinks about the precious few minutes he spent with Stiles the night before, sat companionably in the close comfort of the couch, carrying an entire conversation in hushed tones, lest they wake Isaac up.

A little flutter of nerves travel up his spine, making his skin shimmer with uncontained delight. He can’t stop thinking about Stiles, he _has_ been thinking about Stiles a little more than sporadically through the past week.

He and Isaac are far away from Kate, Stiles is a new and comfortable fit in his life, Isaac will soon be getting the help he needs and everything seems to finally to slot into place.

It's a thought that fills his insides with tentative kind of warmth and allows his mind to dare to hope the most insubstantial of dreams.

Derek’s good mood evaporates somewhat when he opens the door to Stiles looking haggard and withdrawn. In a kind of awful contrast, his bright orange plaid overshirt washes him out completely, and instead it highlights the sallow tone to his skin. His eyes are red and swollen but a large, albeit dithering, smile is already present on his face.

His dark hair looks as if he has been running many a nervous fingers through it and his voice is thick and stumbling, like his words routinely get stuck to the back of his throat each time he tries to speak.  

“Hey, you’re awake this time,” Stiles greets, but he isn’t actually looking directly at Derek, rather he directs his gaze almost _through_ Derek as he brushes past him and heads straight towards the kitchen to dump his backpack by the table. “Is Isaac up yet?" Stiles asks. "Is it okay if I make coffee?”

Derek can tell that Stiles is upset, it isn’t that hard to figure out given the nervous energy Stiles is carrying around in himself but he has no idea how to begin that particular conversation and Derek isn’t sure that he particularly _wants_ to open up that conversation route anyway. The only person Derek knows how to comfort is his son, and Stiles definitely isn’t Isaac.

He doesn’t want to risk upsetting Stiles even more just because he has the emotional range of the proverbial teaspoon.

So instead Derek stands in the middle of the kitchen with his hands wringing uselessly at each other, his eyes tracking Stiles’ every movement as he bustles in and around the kitchen with both comfort and familiarity, despite the short amount of time he's spent there.

Derek can see that he's rattled by something, he wonders whether Isaac’s reaction to him might be the source of it, but then he remembers Stiles’ determination to form a friendship with Isaac from the evening before, and he realises that Isaac’s antagonism is not the present problem.

Derek watches as Stiles moves, with a rigidity and a self-consciousness that makes him deeply discomfited.

Stiles pauses in his ministrations and turns towards Derek in anticipation of an answer for whatever it was that he had questioned. Derek hadn’t really been paying attention to the words tumbling out of Stiles’ mouth, being that he was more preoccupied with the sadness radiating from Stiles, but now he scours his brain trying to remember what the hell it was that Stiles was talking about.

An amused expression flickers across Stiles’ face and he smiles wanly.

“You weren’t listening were you?” he laughs a little. “Don't worry. I get that a lot, believe me.”

“Why were you crying?” Derek blurts.

Granted, it isn’t the most eloquent or tactful method he has ever employed, but it’s better than over-analysing the situation and trying to ignore the incessant itch beneath his skin that urges him to make Stiles feel better.

The small, indulgent smile drops off of Stiles’ face and shock spasms across his expression before he can rein it in. His bottom lips trembles just slightly as he considers Derek. Derek who stands nervously and apprehensively watching him.

Stiles opens his mouth and, for a second, it looks like he just wants to unleash everything that’s hurting and troubling him onto Derek’s willing ears, so Derek tries to put on his most open and inviting expression and he waits.

He can see Stiles’ mind turn with heavy deliberation and his mouth work as if he's actually considering telling Derek, but after a long moment Stiles’ mouth closes into a tight line. Derek can practically see his physical transformation - he can see Stiles’ anguish retreating deep back into himself, the pretence of control replacing it and then Stiles smiles shakily.

“Do you mind if we don’t get into that right now?” he asks.

Derek nods stiffly and mumbles a ‘sure, of course,’ as he moves back to grab his laptop and sit on the table.

He feels thoroughly reprimanded, and has to remind himself that Stiles is his employee and nothing more, no matter how much he wishes for that. They haven’t even known each other for that long; certainly not long enough for Stiles to feel comfortable with telling Derek all about his personal life and Derek shouldn’t pry.

But he can’t help it; he wants to know all about Stiles. About his likes, dislikes, his most annoying habits, everything.

And it scares Derek, because these are the kind of thoughts that keep him up late into the night, listening to the faint sounds of Beacon Hills dwindling down into shade and shadows with his eyes chasing the moonlight floating across the walls of his room. It's utterly devastating because this is the _exact_ same soul-crushing surge of affection that he felt for Kate and for Theo before her.

It doesn’t need to be said that each of his relationships ended badly, it gnaws incessantly at Derek’s nerves because isn’t this the _exact same_ situation as Kate? He was heartbroken and angry and upset over the monumental break up with Theo and for a solid month he hid in a dark bar on the furthest corner of campus and drank his sorrows away.

Then on a chance encounter in that very same bar he swiftly fixated on Kate and everything she was.

But Derek wants Stiles. He wants him _so_ damn much. Derek wants every single warm inch of him, even when he knows he can’t have him, because Stiles is not his to have.

After their coffee is made and poured Stiles hands him a mug as he slides into the seat beside Derek, their elbows almost touching. Stiles doesn’t look at Derek, instead he stirs the spoon in his own cup in slow, lazy circles and fixates on the whirlpool his actions create. Derek cradles the mug in one of his hands and stares resolutely at the article on his screen, not willing to make Stiles uncomfortable but having no idea how to break the silence otherwise.

“It’s nothing personal,” Stiles begins, and he stirs his coffee slowly, deliberately. Derek takes this opportunity to turn to him and watch his profile intently; he watches his lashes hanging low to his cheeks, the shape of his nose, the beauty-spots marking his reddened cheek, the open curve of his mouth.

“It’s a long story,” Stiles says softly. “Filled with sighs.”

Derek looks down to the cup nestled in his hands; he can feel the heat of the drink slowly seeping into his skin and he takes a deep breath. “I know plenty of those.”

-

The whole apartment is quiet and the air reverberates with a comfortable and companionable almost-silence. The laptop generates a low hum as Derek scans the webpage of _Financial Times_ and the sound is accompanied by the occasional rippling sound of Stiles turning a page in the book he grabbed out of his bag. After a while Derek is broken out of his quiet state by Stiles’ voice.

“Derek?”

Derek turns his face towards him. Stiles has his book overturned on the table in front of him but Derek’s attention is instantaneously grabbed by Stiles’ thumb, suggestively dragging in slow, unhurried pulls on the rim of his coffee mug.

He draws his gaze from Stiles' hand and up, pausing lightly at his parted lips, before finding his eyes.

Stiles already has his own gaze trained on him. The whole encounter doesn't last longer than ten quick heartbeats, but it feels so much longer than that. It's as if the world has stopped in its turn just for this _one_ solitary moment.

Stiles seems to have a magnetic pull when it comes to Derek, and the electricity fizzles even more ferociously between them the longer they look at each other.

“Stiles?” Derek says and his voice is lower, slower and so, _so_ decadent. Derek knows that this is beyond inapt; this is his son’s nanny for fuck’s sake, but right now he really doesn’t care. He can see the remnant red rawness beneath Stiles’ bottom lashes contrasting with the pallid blue rings encircling his eyes and then there is a spread of burgundy heat taking hold on Stiles’ cheek. And all he wants to do is pepper Stiles’ gorgeous face with tiny, stolen kisses and make him feel better.

Stiles mouth falls open even more at the sound of Derek’s voice, and Derek can see him visibly taking in a deep, calming breath, his tongue darting out to wet his lip. Then an instant later Stiles seems to remember precisely who he's looking at with eyes widened and _wanting_ , and he blinks back into focus, the heady haze of his expression flickers and turns quickly into one of bashfulness.

Although, when his cheeks bloom with colour once again and Stiles turns his face away, Derek notices with a desperate churn in the pit of his stomach that it's for a completely different reason. 

Derek watches him intently through the myriad of expressions washing over his face, and he feels deeply regretful because _of course_ he would be able to ruin things anyway, he wouldn’t be Derek Hale if he didn’t ruin someone’s life at least once a day, he thinks crossly.

Derek sees the anger waver in Stiles’ face, followed quickly by embarrassment, disbelief, resentment, condemnation, resignation and so many others that they stack up next to each other, like an infinite number of universes with spaces of dark blankness between them.

Derek has hardly any time to wonder whether all of these expressions are meant for him or for Stiles himself before the latter presses his lips tightly together and shakes his head, it’s a diminutive twitch of an action but it still cuts through Derek like glass.

Derek tightens his grip on his own mug, looks determinedly towards his computer screen once more, and firmly stamps on his burgeoning affection for Stiles. It’s stupid and irresponsible anyway; he’s a twenty-eight year old businessman _and_  a father, he doesn't have time for a crush on Stiles, like some sort of naïve twelve year old.

Derek shakes his own head firmly, mouth tightening into a disgusted frown. He has no need for fancying Stiles; he needs to focus on his child. This is the kind of selfishness that has hurt his son before and he’ll be damned if he's going to allow himself to hurt Isaac again because he can’t stop thinking about the man in front of him.

So it ends today, he decides, and he will be fine with it, totally and completely fine. He's fine with never seeing or becoming close to anyone ever again. Derek will take the hurt of never amorously loving another person, a hurt that lodges itself like a whirlpool in the deepest recesses of his heart, because it’s the least he can do to make up for the monumental mistake of not keeping Kate the hell away from Isaac.

Derek unwinds his face from the grave grimace it had settled into, he blinks twice and re-reads the same sentence four or five times before he gives up trying to understand the jumble of letters with a small sigh.

From the edge of his vision he can see Stiles buck up the courage and turn to face him slightly.

“So, about Isaac,” he begins, throwing Derek a tentative look. “I was researching late last night on how we could develop our friendship.”

Despite the previous thoughts rushing like about his mind like a cold torrent of iced water, Derek finds himself turning to Stiles, narrowing and smiling lightly, “You literally just Googled _‘How to make a child like me’_ didn’t you?”

Stiles huffs a loud laugh at that, his cheeks colour with renewed vitality and his eyes sparkle. And just like that, due to that minute twitch of muscle, Stiles’ entire face changes and the whole mood changes with him. His expression becomes loud and carefree and Derek smiles at him, fully now that the tension from half a moment ago has dissipated into nothingness.  

Stiles bobs his head in acquiescence. “You caught me,” he smiles. “But I’ve got a plan and I'm going to make him _love_ me.”

Derek lifts a single eyebrow, motions for him to continue and Stiles _launches_ into conversation, detailing itineraries and idealised concepts of a new and easy friendship with Isaac.

After about ten minutes Stiles pulls out a notepad and a biro from the backpack placed by his feet, Stiles slips the pen into his mouth pulls the cap off with his teeth, an act that Derek stubbornly looks away from, despite the coil of dank sensation unfurling through his body.

The quick-fire round of questions Stiles unleashes on Derek makes his head spin. The way that Stiles’ mannerisms change, turning swift and self-assured reminds Derek of the Sheriff, and he reflects - in the same way that Stiles did with he and Isaac - that Stiles really _is_ the Sheriff’s son.

“What does he like?” Stiles asks with his pen poised to write over the paper, radiating professionalism and a dogged determination.

Derek shrugs helplessly. “Animals, superheroes, cartoons …” he trails off ditheringly as Stiles rolls his eyes to the heavens and back.

“Like every child ever,” he mutters. “I need you to be more specific than that Derek.”

“I don’t know what to be specific about,” Derek replies, voice falling back into the familiar tones of childish defensiveness. He curbs down on the urge to cross his arms, duck his head and pout firmly like he would during the immense amount of times he and Anthony would butt heads as children.

Stiles sighs and Derek can see the physical effort that he makes to appear patient and good-natured, “Fine, I’ll ask you some _specific_ questions and all you have to do is answer with something that's more than a grunt or a monosyllable, alright?”

Naturally, Derek grunts an agreement just to be contrary and he smirks, reveling in the withering look that Stiles directs at him before turning his attention to his notepad with a huff.

“Marvel or DC?”

“Really?” Derek asks. “That’s the first question you’re going with?”

“It’s an important one, Derek,” Stiles says. “Don’t think I didn’t notice the longing gazes he gave my shirt yesterday.”

“He likes both,” Derek replies. “He’s four years old, he barely understands that there's more than one house of comics, nevermind forming an allegiance with one.”

“It is not about ‘forming an allegiance with one’, Derek,” Stiles mutters petulantly. “It’s-, look, what’s his favourite superhero?”

They argue and converse and argue once more on every aspect of Isaac’s likes and dislikes, a conversation that lasts over an hour, with short bursts of exasperation dotted throughout, like when Derek threw his hands up to the air and cried, “Well, why don’t you ask him yourself?”

“Oh sure, Derek,” Stiles had drawled. “I’m sure Isaac and I would have a very _enlightening_ conversation, provided that he, y'know, _actually_ spoke to me.”

Derek rolled his eyes in playful frustration but he found himself laughing through their conversation, impatiently batting away the niggling dark thoughts from before.

Later, the laptop and the notepad lay forgotten on the table, both Stiles and Derek have turned their chairs towards each other as they chatter.

“So, how do you know Erica?” Derek asks because he had been wondering for the longest time since their meeting the day previously.

“Scott helps Boyd teach little league at the weekends, Erica and I cheer from the stands sometimes.”

And it seems that all the air whooshes out of Derek in that instant. He has to remind himself that Stiles is not his to have, he’s Scott’s apparently. Thankfully, Stiles is completely oblivious to Derek’s inner distress and he carries on regardless, speaking with his hands forming shapes and waves as he continues.

“Oh! Right, of course, you probably don’t even know who Scott is. God, w _ell done, Stiles._ He’s my best friend," Stiles explains. "Has been since we were kids. He’s more like the brother I never wanted, y'know?” he says laughing slightly. “I honestly don’t know how he still puts up with me.”

Derek remembers now that Stiles’ boyfriend is called Noah, he heard his name during his and Stiles’ first meeting in the Sheriff’s office.

He feels ridiculous at how disappointed he was at the mention of Scott, and doubly so when he remembers that Stiles _does_ actually have a boyfriend, and that just because it isn’t Scott it doesn't mean that Stiles is magically available. Besides, Derek is just not going there, so he moves swiftly on.

“You and Scott have been friends your entire lives?” Derek asks after a slight pause.

Stiles’ face visibly brightens and his shoulders curl into him under the bright force of his smile. “Can I tell you how we met? I love telling people how we met. Seriously, I’ve got it down to an exact verbal science.”

Derek’s heartbeat kicks up a notch at the sight of Stiles’ high spirits and he nods, anything to keep Stiles looking as carefree as he does in this moment.

Stiles straightens in his chair, looks Derek squarely in the eyes.

“It was Lacrosse season in the second grade,” he begins gravelly. “For some reason all the little jocks wanted me. And not in the nice _, ‘I want to be your friend,’_ way, but more in the ‘ _I want to break every single bone in your body,_  kind of way. I think it had something to do with my short chubby legs and my affinity for being a hyperactive little shit.”

Stiles breaks off immediately, and looks about the kitchen in alarm. When he's satisfied that Isaac is not within hearing distance to have his innocence gravelly dashed by Stiles’ terrible vocabulary, he continues.

“Scott was the only non-white, non-jock boy in the school, probably in the entire town. Non-jock, I mean, not non-white. Scott was probably one of the few boys who wasn’t into Lacrosse. But then, if you take into account his non-whiteness it makes the pool of the … I mean _not_ that everyone who wasn’t white was involved in sports because that would be racist-… No! You know what? I digress. Where was I?”

Derek lifts both eyebrows in amused disbelief as Stiles gets more and more confused because this is Stiles’ version of _down to an exact verbal science_? His expression says as much and Stiles shoots him a dark look.

“I haven’t been able to tell this story in years, _years_ Derek. So I’m a little rusty, sue me. Just let me just tell you the story in _peace,_ man.”

Derek hides his laugh with a hand to his mouth, but Stiles’ stern look alleviates a little with a small smile when he looks at him.

“A _little_ rusty?” Derek teases.

Stiles levels another withering look in his direction, squinting at Derek as he purposefully continues his tale, “So Scott and I joined forces. We took ‘em all out, we were one hell of a team. Still are. Nothing could beat Scott’s burst of mystical powers between his pitiful asthmatic wheezes, it was _beautiful_. Nothing but pre-teen capriciousness.”

Stiles grins at Derek, waves the palms of his hands at Derek and laughs, “Ta-dah!”

-

When it turns to ten in the morning and Isaac still hasn’t gotten up from bed, Derek seeks him out. He finds his little boy snuggled deep into his covers cradling Benji the Penguin close to his face, eyes closed, mouth open and drooling. It worries him slightly that he finds the sight endearing.

Isaac makes small snuffling noises into his pillow as he dreams and after a while Derek wakes Isaac with a gentle hand on his shoulder. Moments later Isaac blinks his way into the land of the living and blearily focuses on his father’s face.

“Morning,” Derek says, smoothing Isaac’s damp hair from his forehead. “You okay?”

Isaac nods, presses his fist into his eye before heaving up and crawling into Derek’s waiting arms. He fits his head in the crook of Derek’s shoulder and Derek presses the back of his hand against his temple to check his son’s temperature.

Derek can tell that Isaac isn't sick, his son shivers against him and Derek can feel the fast pitter-patter beat of his heart. Derek just holds him close as Isaac curls an arm around his neck and makes small, hurt noises at the back of his throat, snuggling into him.

“Bad dream?”

He feels Isaac nod against him, so he cradles a hand on the back of his head and kisses his curls. Derek knows that the dream wasn’t about Kate, thankfully. Isaac has small tells and Derek has learnt the difference between a regular bad dream and Isaac having a dream about his mother. It hurts like hell that he even has to make the distinction.

That in itself is something that Derek never imagined he would have to know, he never even contemplated that his little boy would ever have to be afraid of his own mother.

Derek stands up and rubs Isaac’s back soothingly and coos softly into his hair as he heads down to the bathroom.

Isaac peels himself from his father’s chest when Derek turns on the tap of the sink, so that Derek can stoop and wash his face; he grimaces against the lukewarm water and emits a full body shiver when Derek towels his face dry, but he doesn’t seem so clammy anymore.

Derek watches his son, caught halfway between amusement and mild worry, as Isaac brushes his teeth wearily. He is not even trying, just sweeping the brush over the same spot as he blinks his eyes open like he’s trying his damnedest to not keel over and go back to sleep.

Derek huffs and grabs the toothbrush, adjusting his grip and trying not to feel ridiculous as he dwarfs his son’s tiny penguin-toothbrush in his hand. Isaac doesn’t even resist, just closes his eyes, sways slightly in Derek’s hold and lets his mouth fall open as his father brushes his teeth for him.

Isaac only begins to look like he’s alive after Derek has directed him to rinse his mouth of the minty toothpaste and has placed him on the chair opposite where Stiles is settled reading Kafka’s _Metamorphosis_ intently. He looks up at Isaac, glancing quickly up at Derek with a worried expression before turning back to Isaac, placing his book down.

“Hey buddy,” he smiles a little. “Are you okay?”

Derek, from where he's stood looming worriedly next to Isaac’s chair, is pleasantly surprised to note that Stiles addresses Isaac rather than him. When Derek was a child he hated when anyone treated him like he couldn’t answer for himself because he was, in fact, a child, and Isaac had turned out to be the same exact way.

To even more of Derek’s surprise, Isaac shakes his head in response to Stiles; it’s non-verbal but it’s definitely communication. And when Derek catches Stiles’ eye he can tell that he had the same thought. Sure, Isaac is probably only bothering to acknowledge Stiles because Derek is there, but it's still progress, and it’s nice pretending that Isaac is actually making an effort.

Stiles’ gaze flickers back to Isaac, he leans forward and grimaces in sympathy when he addresses him, "Bad dream?”

Isaac looks up to his father briefly before returning his attention to Stiles and he nods hesitantly, like Stiles is a doe-eyed creature that he has to be wary of. Isaac looks even more alarmed when Stiles breaks out in a face-splitting grin, delicately raising one eyebrow in disbelief, a movement that has Derek’s influence stamped all over it.

“When I was little," Stiles says, despite Isaac's expression. "I used to have bad dreams too, and my dad used to make me the best breakfast for afters.”

Derek can see the visible shift in Isaac’s posture at the promise of a full breakfast. His eyes grow large and round as Stiles casually divulges the details.

“Yeah, he used to make pancakes with French toast and lots of other yummy stuff. It was delicious, and I know that it was because I had it way too many times to even bother counting," Stiles continues, eyes briefly flickering up to Derek in amusement before he turns back to Isaac. "My mom used to say that I was even scared of the _moonlight_ , so my dad made a breakfast that was fit for kings every morning after so I'd feel better.”

Stiles leans forward and places his hand to the side of his mouth like he’s about to reveal a very big secret. Isaac leans in slightly, he never could resist secrets - and he was intently riveted to Stiles’ story, Derek thinks it's probably because it involves breakfast foods. If any Hale was a breakfast food connoisseur it would definitely be Isaac. “And you know what, Isaac? My dad _still_ makes it for me sometimes.”

Stiles lifts both his eyebrows and nods seriously, then after a few moments he looks away from Isaac’s rapt expression, playing coy and fiddling with the weathered cover of his novel.

“Y'know, I-. Well, I could make it for you, if you want,” he says, and he shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly, like it's no big deal.

Isaac looks pleadingly towards Derek, and he barely finishes nodding his consent before Isaac turns back to Stiles and nods frantically, “Yes, _please_ , Stiles.”

Derek pulls his laptop towards Isaac before he goes up to help Stiles at the counter, Stiles who is smiling happily to himself. The signs of fatigue from earlier in the morning have all but disappeared, but Derek doesn’t fail to notice that Stiles’ mobile phone is turned off and placed front down beside the coffee maker, he realises it's been turned off since just after Stiles had arrived that morning.

Derek doesn’t mention this however; instead he cracks the eggs into a bowl and he hisses, “I hope you know that I’m putting my son’s healthy diet in jeopardy for your sake.”

Stiles scoffs and Derek still marvels at the level of their comradeship after such a short time.

“Oh please, Derek,” Stiles whispers back, just as playfully. “You know you want it just as much as Isaac does.”

He has a point; Derek concedes, so naturally he ignores him and furiously whisks the eggs with a fork.

Stiles laughs softly and taps a finger to his nose, “The way to the heart is through the stomach.”

“Shut up,” Derek says but he smiles a little when he hears the mellow tone of Stiles’ laugh.

-

Isaac abandons his internet game completely when Stiles sets a plate in front of him. Derek sits next to him with his own plate and Stiles settles in with his breakfast opposite them.

It does look wonderful: a stack of three fluffy pancakes made from scratch, drizzled with honey and with slices of French toast sitting to the side and piled high with a mountain of scrambled eggs tumbling down to the centre of the plate where Stiles had laid the bacon.

“It’s _artistic,_ Derek,” Stiles had insisted several times in the ten minutes it took him to assemble each plate.  

Before Derek even opens his mouth to remind Isaac of his manners his son beats him to it.

“Thank you, Stiles,” Isaac says, and then he digs in with all the gusto and appetite of a four year old.

Stiles’ smile looks almost painful it's so large.

“You’re welcome,” Stiles says, and it doesn’t matter that Isaac has gone back to being uncommunicative because this time Isaac initiated the contact, without a prompt from Stiles or a stern look from Derek.

Stiles looks over at Derek and his smile softens a little before he too digs into his food. Derek is halfway into his food before he realises that Isaac didn’t call Stiles ‘Mister’ once this morning.

“Progress,” Derek mutters.

Isaac ignores him, too busy with making a significant dent the wonderment in front of him, but Stiles beams at him. Derek sees how the air presses out of Stiles’ lungs under the force of his smile and he nods.

“Progress,” he agrees. 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Until the next week!


	6. Only Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, um okay. How unfair is Tyler Hoechlin’s face and, his entire existence? Like holy crap, please stop. His smile is as radiant as the fucking sun and oh my god his hair.   
> I have never in my entire life wanted to run my hands through somebody’s hair as much as I want to through his. Ugh. 
> 
> Okay, so if I've done this correctly, the link to this week's song should link should go directly to the Kings of the Moonlight playlist, my youtube name is Scott Pilgrim because I legit have a problem. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter!

[Give me shelter, or show me heart. Come on love, come on love and watch me fall apart. Watch me fall apart. ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OWlKZ6C7cDY&list=PLgnxrTrD23zQLT9ILLqmwjuXZFWlp1MSr&index=7)

-

The quiet tap-tap-tapping of manicured fingers on the keys of the sleek dark keyboard, placed on the gleaming service desk, is the only sound to echo against the walls of the waiting room in the clinical centre. The noise resonates against the polished white interiors and bounces high into the domed ceiling only to return with a clashing clamour - attacking Derek’s ears in a cacophony of silence.

Positioned in front of the monitor screen is Doctor Morrell’s assistant, Callie, a silver-haired siren with dark brown eyes and a smattering of freckles across her young face. Her attention is enraptured by the artificial glow of the screen, and her repetitive tapping rhythm is broken only by the decisive clicks of her computer mouse.

Sitting beside Derek is Isaac. His son is intently playing with the Rubik’s cube Laura had given to him when they had all piled into Laura’s car to head earlier that morning.

It's been a little under two weeks since Derek had made the phone call to Dr Morell's office; he'd dismissed Stiles’ this Friday but Derek can clearly recall the worried look that Stiles directed towards him.  

He had hesitated on the threshold before he left for the night, asking for the thousandth time, “Are you sure that you’re going to be okay? I can totally come over tomorrow morning, if you want.”  

Derek does want that, he wants to be able to be able to have an honest talk with Stiles about all of _this._ Buthe knows how unfair it would be to drag Stiles into his mess.

Stiles has been in Derek’s employment for about a fortnight, and he tentatively considers him a burgeoning friend, but Stiles already has so much on his own conscience with dealing with Isaac’s hostility, that Derek can't possibly bear to add to it.

So he had nodded and told him that he’d be okay, with a casual standoffishness and a careful detachment that definitely did not go unnoticed by Stiles, he'd averted his gaze from Derek and quietly returned his _goodnight_.  

The previous night hadn't been easy for Derek on a number of accounts. He had curled on his side with his back plastered to the back of the couch with the television on mute as he tried not to think of the sad look on Stiles’ face and how the dynamic between them had shifted ever so slightly.

Derek had shut his eyes tightly, pretending not to be worried about his son despite the fact that he had rushed into Isaac’s room every single time he thought he heard him, so much as, whimper in distress; all but sprinting into Isaac’s darkened room.

Derek had spent the entire morning utterly and completely disconnected from reality, jolting around Laura’s watchful presence. She had perched on the barstool at the counter to observe him quietly, and Derek remembers the way he'd lost himself in his thoughts and forgotten all about her presence until he turned around and startled.

He had sent the dish he was holding to the ground and watched it splinter into a thousand shards on the cold tile of the floor.

Her hands had jerked towards him but he had snapped at her, telling her to _back off_ and watching helplessly as she'd recoiled away from him.

He'd felt terrible about it, but he also fervently wished that he didn’t need to have to rely on her. However, with the camaro out of commission for the time being, he had to.

The car had been sent away for repairs to the damage Kate had inflicted on the metal work. Derek is glad of this at least; he doesn’t relish the feeling of flinching every time he sees the long thin absence of metal alongside the car, and he shivers just thinking of Kate’s fury, waves of agitation rippling on the surface of his skin and manifesting in prickly goose bumps.

Derek and Laura flank each side of Isaac as he stares intently at the game clasped in his hands, his tiny huffs of frustration growing louder and louder the more complex the game becomes. It fills the room with a brittle tension that scratches at Derek’s patience.

He rolls his neck, so as to stare at the white domed ceiling of the clinic and closes his eyes, he has a feeling that he knows precisely what's to come.

Indeed not too soon after, Derek hears the tell-tale child sized growl, emanating from deep within Isaac’s chest, before the inevitable sound of the Rubik’s cube skittering across the dark tile of the room fills the quiet.

Derek heaves a sigh, blinking despite the dull ache it causes him in the acrid feel of it after a sleepless night. He pushes himself up from his seat, using the press of his hand on his knees as leverage to haul himself up and across the room.  

His sneakers make barely any sound as he pads over and grabs the Rubik’s cube, he smiles ruefully at the assistant, perched behind the glossy desk bar, and murmurs yet another apology. She shakes her head minutely and tells him not to worry, a perfectly polite smile across her face.

When Derek lumbers back to his seat, he ignores Isaac’s outstretched hand and instead he stuffs the cube into the pocket of his grey woollen coat, shaking his head firmly in denial.

His son pouts severely and stops swinging his feet in the inches of air between his lace-ups and the floor to glare at his father, Isaac struggles to jump off of the seat and stomps his way across to sit dejectedly next to the receptionist’s desk.  

She pauses in her typing to beam a bright, genuine smile at him and then goes back to her work. Isaac tentatively smiles back at her before retreating into the vivid and childishly delightful imagination of his mind soon after.

Derek doesn't feel bad about taking away his son’s only form of entertainment. He might have done, if not for the previous four times that Isaac had thrown the cube in a fit of transgression in the half an hour that they’d been sitting there. It's enough, for Derek, that Isaac now sits quietly - but the way that Laura looks up briefly from her phone, sighs to herself and mutters, _‘so spoiled’_ under her breath grates on Derek’s nerves.

He doesn't want to deal with her insensitiveness today, and he finds himself wishing that Anthony had been able to come with him instead.

Anthony would understand why Derek was tolerating Isaac’s antics, he wouldn’t roll his eyes at how he allowed Isaac to blatantly misbehave and he certainly wouldn’t hover over him as if waiting for him to inevitably implode.

Laura hadn’t been there when Derek had to sit Isaac down and explain to him what _therapy_ was and what it meant for them to start going. Nobody but Derek had seen the slow burn of hurt bloom in Isaac’s eyes when he asked whether the need to go to therapy was because of him, and how he had asked quietly, sadly, “To fix me?”

Nobody had seen how Derek had crushed Isaac to his chest and told him over and over that he wasn’t broken, and that he was perfect as he was and nobody was ever, _ever_ , going to ‘fix’ him.

No one had been there to see how, despite his best efforts, Derek hadn’t really succeeded in comforting his son; how even pressing kisses to Isaac’s temple had not been enough to erase the look in Isaac’s eyes.

All that Laura sees now is Isaac displaying a great propensity for tantrums, and even though she was compassionate at first, she quickly grew irritated.

It's almost a relief when the landline, situated on the assistant’s desk suddenly hurls into life, sending vibrations into the still air. Some ten minutes before, Doctor Morrell’s previous patients, a mother and father and their pre-adolescent child had found themselves in the attention of Derek as they hurried to sign out and embrace the exit in quiet happiness.

Derek waits with baited breath as Callie murmurs into the telephone, Isaac stands and trundles over to fit himself between Derek’s knees, his small hands clasping both of his father’s larger ones. He leans back into Derek’s chest, both watching the conversation unfold in front of them with a nervous sort of apprehension.

They can’t hear the words, so instead they interpret the bodily cues the assistant is displaying as best as they can. Callie nods once, placing the telephone back in to its cradle as she turns to address the trio on the cushioned bank of seats opposite her.

“Doctor Morrell will see you now.”

Laura leaves them with the promise of returning in an hour bearing gifts of fast food and sweets, and so father and son walk hand in hand down the brightly lit corridor leading off from the right side of reception.

Streaming the walls of the corridor are dozens upon dozens of vibrant juvenile depictions framed in light oak - complete with broad strokes of crayoned letters in signature of each child on the bottom. These pictures lead the way from the reception area and towards the heavy door of the Doctor’s office.

Isaac trudges his way down the corridor slowly, considering each painting and causing Derek to slow to the pace of a snail to accomodate him.

When they finally reach the correct door, Derek hesitates a little. He touches the cold, tarnished brass knob, looking down at his son. Isaac offers him a tentative smile, pushes his small palm in the air towards the closed door and makes a small, encouraging noise.

Derek’s hand leaves the doorknob and fits underneath Isaac’s armpits, hauling him up into a hug. With that small action his son manages to make him feel so much better; light and airy, the tension rolling off of his shoulders in waves when Isaac fits his hand to Derek’s clean shaven cheek. Derek presses his forehead to his son’s, and takes a deep calming breath.

“You and me, kid.”

-

Derek doesn’t know what he expects when he opens the door to Morrell’s office.

The room is wide and bright, with jars filled with coloured rocks and a shelf filled with board games, there's a large open area situated to the far left of the room fitted with a coloured carpet and boxes full of legos stacked in the middle. There are an assortment of pictures on another shelf, photographs of Doctor Morrell with several people in her life.

Doctor Morrell is younger than her voice had previously suggested, but she looks capable, professional and open, so Derek tries not to worry too much. She stands from behind her desk, smoothing her hands on [the dark leather pants beneath her navy jacket](http://www.thesartorialist.com/photos/on-the-street-olivia-p-london/) and outstretches her hand.

“Good afternoon, Mr Hale,” she smiles and then she turns her hand towards Isaac. “And _good afternoon_ , Mr Hale.”

The hand that Isaac has wound around Derek’s neck flexes slightly, nervousness Derek thinks, but he does fit his tiny hand against the palm of Doctor Morrell’s in greeting and offers her a timid smile.

When she motions for them to sit, Derek places Isaac in the seat to his left. His empty hands instantly feel awkward as he clasps them in his lap, throwing furtive glances at Isaac only to see that his son is doing the same.

“Shall we begin?” Morell asks.

Isaac is small, Derek knows that, he sees it on a daily basis but it is still wildly amusing to see how his son’s shortness affects the things he does. This time is no different, because by sitting properly in his chair, just like his dad taught him to, Isaac can barely see over Doctor Morrell’s desk; instead hes's stuck straining his neck in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the ensuing conversation.

Doctor Morrell notices this of course, and takes a moment to root through the drawer beneath her desk, producing three seat cushions from within it. She offers them to Derek and Isaac with a small smile.

“It’s handy to keep these around," she says with a light smile. "When half of my patients are so tiny.”

Derek likes her already, she has that same parental fondness that manifests in his own face, but she seems to be missing the physical exhaustion that often accompanies it. She smiles at them once Derek has Isaac perfectly positioned atop the mountain of stacked cushions.

Doctor Morrell leans her elbows on the dark wood of her desk, tucks a strand of hair that's fallen out of her bun behind her ear and speaks.

“What we do here is a treatment called Parent-Child Interaction Therapy," Morell pauses, hesitating a little before she turns to Isaac. "Do you know what therapy is, Isaac?”  

Isaac nods gravelly, his hands fiddling with the bottom of his neat cotton polo, “My dad explained it to me.”

Doctor Morrell smiles at him, “I bet he did. Dads are great at explaining stuff, aren’t they?”

Isaac turns and grins at his father, “Mine is.”

Derek feels a huge surge of affection for his son then, the feeling charges up his body and his heart expands with love.

“He does look like he’s a good explainer," Morell continues, sharing a look with Derek. "But you know, Isaac, sometimes even grown-ups have a hard time understanding therapy. So I like to make extra sure that I always tell you both exactly what we’ll be doing. Okay? You with me so far?"

Isaac nods, shoulders slumped and lace-ups knocking together as he leans forward and listens intently as Morell continues, "The therapy that I specialise in is a way of working with children who have experienced very stressful things in their lives. Stress is what comes from very sad events or different changes that happens in somebody's life.”

“Like what happened with my mommy?” Isaac interrupts, voice steady but mouth downturned and fingertips pressed tightly to his palms. 

“Yeah,” she smiles sadly. “Like what happened with your mommy. Everything that happens has an effect on you, and how happy you are and so I’m here to make you feel better.”

Isaac nods again, more somberly this time, and after a brief look to Derek, Doctor Morrell doen't hesitate to continue.

“I know you probably don’t understand everything that has happened between your mom and dad right now," she tells Isaac. "But it doesn’t matter because we’re going to have plenty of time to do just that. That’s what therapy is _for_ ; and this is a treatment that focuses on improving the relationship between children and their parents.”

She turns her attention on to Derek, who is sitting very still in his chair. He feels altogether too big in his chair but he keeps eye contact nevertheless.

“It involves a live coaching type of treatment, so that I can observe the relationship between you and Isaac effectively," she says. "It’s a programme that'll involve Isaac but it will also it will help you, Mister Hale, to use very consistent and predictable strategies that will allow you to feel more secure and positive about your parenting as well as helping Isaac improve his behaviour.”

It's the wrong thing to say, and Derek and Doctor Morrell both sense the change in Isaac’s posture immediately. They see his hands curl tightly around the arms of his chair, so tight that Derek can see the veins running beneath Isaac’s skin raise to the surface like lines in the earth after a quake.  

Derek is painfully reminded of Isaac’s expression from a couple of days before. He’s reminded of the utterly devastating silence that echoed around Isaac for days, a silence that tainted even the most determined of Erica’s grins, Stiles’ attempts at conversations, Boyd’s hugs. For the past few days everybody seemed to carry around the same sadness that Isaac held in his heart.

When Doctor Morrell speaks, her voice is much softer.

“When I say behaviour Isaac, I mean the formal term," she tells him gently. "Behaviour is something we all do, it’s how we act. You, and I and your dad all have certain behaviours. I don’t mean for _one_ second that you have bad behaviour, or that you need to be improved, okay?”

Derek hovers his hand next to Isaac’s arm, palm up, offering his son warmth and comfort. Isaac stares at his hand but soon relaxes the grip on his chair, works out the mild sore cramping his hand had developed, and slips his hand into his father’s before turning back to the doctor and nodding cautiously, mouth pulled tight.

Doctor Morrell’s eyes soften when she regards Isaac before they sharpen into their original professionalism, she takes a considering breath and asks, “You’re four years old, right, Isaac?”

Isaac nods once again.

“And when’s your birthday?”

“September twenty-second,” he answers, looking over at his father for encouragement.

“Ah, just after the cut off point. So you won’t be going to school this year, right?” Morrell asks leaning towards him, then laughs lightly. “But no matter, it’ll just mean more time to spend with your dad won’t it?”

Isaac squeezes Derek’s hand and they exchange small smiles.

“But do you know what school is for?” Morrell continues.

Isaac bobs his head in agreement, and he realises that he’s supposed to answer when Morrell tips her head to the side in delicate inquisitiveness.

“For learning stuff,” Isaac says carefully.

“Indeed it is,” she smiles and Isaac offers her a shy grin at the praise. “Learning is very important too and we tend to think of learning as something that is limited to classroom, but the fact is that children are learning all the time.”

The information Morrell offers is directed at Derek as well Isaac, and she keeps a steady rhythm of regarding each of them so as to make them feel included.

Derek routinely catches glimpses and flashes of red nail varnish as Morrell uses her hands to emphasise her points and he smiles a little as he's reminded of Stiles’ affinity for the same action. She catches Derek’s eye and continues, “When a child is interacting with their parents they are learning _so_ many different things." 

Derek nods gravely, looks over at Isaac even as Morell continues to talk.

"Like whether they can trust the world," Morell stresses. "And whether the person looking after them can take care of their needs. So your son will always associate that behaviour with a very basic image of his world, and _that's_  what's going to affect the kind of person he turns into later on.”

Tension pulses through Derek as thinks about how scared Isaac was on the night that they fled Kate and the city. His heart seizes up with the rush of blood and sadness, and God, how he hates thinking about how much trauma Isaac will probably have to encounter because of Kate.

Doctor Morrell looks at Isaac, “For example, Isaac, when you're feeling sad, and a little tearful, you know that he's going to take care of you, right? Because he always has done before." 

Isaac nods, completely entranced.

"You see? That’s extremely important,” she says, looking at Derek and then at Isaac in turn, levelling them with a serious gaze. “Because Isaac's still developing a sense of trust. What Isaac needs from you as a parent, what he needs to _learn_ , is a sense of trust and a sense of safety.”

Derek can remember just how _angry_ Kate looked that night, at both him and Isaac and he honestly doesn't _understand_ it, he doesn't understand _why_. He gulps down a breath of air around the guilt that washes through him in wretchedness, biting at the inside of his lip to try and quell the insane need to break down and cry.

The doctor watches him for a few seconds with a look of quiet consideration; Derek can hear the steady ticking of the desk clock on the edge of Morrell’s desk to his right beating in time with the heavy thud of the heart in his chest.

“This doesn’t stop with infancy, Derek," Morrell says, eyes trained resolutely on Derek, calculating and knowning. "Just as Isaac is learning about these things in the world, we as adults continue to learn about trust and safety too. This is precisely why these sessions involve both the parent _and_ the child.”

Doctor Morrell uses this first session as an opportunity to detail to Derek and Isaac about the very nature of their therapy sessions. Derek can see Isaac bob his head along to Doctor Morrell’s words, watching Derek and mimicking his movements and yet Derek sees those tell-tale lines framing Isaac’s mouth that reveals just how lost he is in the conversation that ebbs around him, wrapping around the air like a living organism.

She tells them of the studies that suggest that the same everyday stresses, as well as profound everyday life stresses can have an integral effect on a child. She warns that if they aren’t given coping skills and care from an adult they can experience early-onset stress early in life and are then more inclined to become more anxious, have reduced social skills and become less likely to socially communicate when they get older. 

She explains to Derek how they might also become very attached and develop a very profound fear of being alone, and he thinks back to how Isaac was acting with the new introduction of Stiles and he feels a bit more capable as a father - knowing that, at the very least, he's beginning to learn now.

Doctor Morrell informs them of the basic structure of the sessions, “It isn’t for forever!” she smiles.

“I know that a lot of people worry that they’re going to be stuck here with me for the rest of their lives, but they’re not," she pauses, clasping her hands on the desk in front of her. "What we do works so that every family that completes treatment is considered a treatment success. Treatment ends when the child’s behaviour is in the typical range of functioning for their age group, and when they're happier and more settled kids.

Derek licks his lips, leaning forward slightly. He hasn't paticularly vocally contributed to the session so far but that doesn't mean that he isn't interested in his son's treatment. 

"What exactly does these sessions entail?" Derek asks.

“It’s what is considered an evidence-based treatment," Morrell says. "So it’s been studied in hundreds and hundreds of kids just like you, Isaac. It's been shown to be effective in helping kids get back into their normal functioning mindstate, but it will also help your dad feel less stressed and more confident in his role as parent."

She turns to Isaac then, adressing him fully, “Our main goal here is to help you form a positive opinion of everything that's going on around you,” she says. “I'm here to help you create a positive _self-actualisation._ Do you know what that means?”

When Isaac shakes his head, his mouth in a moue of confusion Doctor Morrell pulls out a wide sheet of laminated paper and turns it so that it faces both Isaac and Derek. Isaac scoots closer to the edge of the chair without really meaning to, in order to try and get a better view.

When Derek picks him up and places him on his knee he murmurs a distracted _‘thank you, daddy’_ but his attention is already monopolised by the sheet, his eyes are already scouring the page and Isaac has his arms crossed on the table in front of him.

Printed on the sheet is a large green triangle separated into six stacked sections. Each section is clearly labelled with different aspects of needs for psychological well being.

“This is called a [_Hierarchy of Needs_](http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_bE7Mw-gkKG4/S7z5xtoWUVI/AAAAAAAAB6k/_SSTaLBmV5g/s1600/hierarchy.jpeg) chart,” she begins to explain. “It was made by a man named Abraham Maslow. These are all of the things he thinks people need in order to be happy.”

She points to the lowest level on the pyramid, where the words _Physiological Needs_ are printed in neat, white letters.

“This is the most basic thing that we need in order to survive: food and drink and clothes. It's important for everyone to have this, but it's super, mega important for children - and this is why your dad makes extra sure you have everything you need.”

She points to the next level, and the level after that, so on and so forth carefully explaining each level until the pad of her finger taps on the triangular section right at the very top of the pyramid.

“All of these are things we build up throughout our entire lives," she says. "Until we achieve Self-Actualisation.”

She watches Isaac for a second, “I want you to think about something that makes you really happy. When you’ve done something that's really great and it makes you feel all nice and fuzzy inside, and I want you to hold on to that feeling.”

“Like a patronus?” Isaac smiles, eyes wide and blue.

Doctor Morrell laughs softly and beams at Isaac.

“You know what Isaac?" she says. "It’s _exactly_ like a patronus. Self-Actualisation is when the spell is the strongest, all the things that I'll teach you and your dad, these coping skills, will act as tiny sparks of magic that will produce the strongest patronus to chase away the sadness.”

“I think my patronus would be a penguin, my teddy is a penguin,” Isaac sighs wistfully, clasping his fists on the desk and resting his chin on top. “My Daddy’s would be a wolf. That’s his favouritest animal ever.”

Derek feels his cheeks flush in kindly embarrassment but Doctor Morrell just smiles at him, “A wolf is a mighty patronus to have.”

-

With about ten minutes left of the session, Isaac’s interest has more than withered into the nether. He’s shifting restlessly in his father’s lap once again when Doctor Morrell turns to address him.

“So, Isaac, I need to speak to your dad for a tiny bit more but in the meantime, you are more than welcome to play with the legos in the box.”

Isaac positively beams at her, and both she and Derek watch as he toddles off to assemble and disassemble the stacks of legos.

Doctor Morrell turns to Derek, “I can’t help but notice that you’ve been very quiet this session, Derek.”

Derek nods in reluctant acquiescence; he never has had an easy time in being able to be instantaneously charismatic. He's reserved, he always has been.

He takes more of his father’s quiet tendencies than his mother’s vibrancy and in situations such as this one wherein he has to physically face all of his shortcomings; the intensity of the discomfort completely overwhelms him.

“It’s been a hard couple of days, weeks even,” he manages to say. She nods in understanding and regards him intently.

“I'm here to help you get through that as effectively as I can, this is a hard time but you know what they say: if you’re going through hell, keep going," she says delicately. "I realise how daunting this can seem, I do, but this is as much about helping you as it is about helping Isaac. You'll both need each other now and it's up to all of us to create the optimal situation for the two of you to grow in, to live your life and perhaps be able to open up your homes, and your hearts, to new people.”

Derek knows that he should be worried that the first person he thinks of is Stiles, he thinks about the resonance of his laugh and how beautiful he looks when the early morning sun catches the edge of his jaw, as he thumbs through his novel du jour at the table.

He wants to laugh every time he remembers how a few days after their long talk; Stiles had walked in with a backpack heavy with piles of comic books and a large lopsided smile. He'd spread them out on the kitchen floor, switching comics around and making sure they faced a specific way.

When Derek had questioned his antics, Stiles had rolled his eyes.

“It has to look like I’ve just dumped them all, _but_ at the same time the right ones need to catch his attention, and since _someone_ has clearly neglected to show Isaac the proper ways of comics, I've decided to take the responsibility into my own hands, no need to thank me.”

“Good for you," Derek had grumbled over his coffee. "But you’re still cleaning it up.”

Derek remembers how he had to stuff his fist into his mouth to stop from _crying_ of laughter when, once Isaac had walked into the kitchen, Stiles had heaved a great dramatic sigh and proceeded to enunciate in the most wooden prose ever recited: “I have so many comic books and no idea what to do with them,” he pressed his elbows into the thighs of his crossed legs and dropped his chin into his hands. “What should I do?”

Isaac had sighed and thrown Derek an exasperated look, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe that he had to deal with Stiles’ antics. Stiles had looked supremely insulted at Isaac’s dismissal of his thespian skill and that had sent Derek into peals of laughter.

Head thrown back, eyes shut, body shaking with uncontained tremors, honest-to-god _laughter_. When he'd looked back Stiles was sporting a bashful grin, his cheeks were reddened and he was shaking his head at him. Isaac had marched up to grab Derek’s hand and drag him to the comics to help him choose. The three of them had sat together for the better part of the morning around the tumble of comic books, Isaac perusing them intently whilst ignoring Derek’s quiet conversation with Stiles.

Isaac and Stiles are still not on the best of terms quite just yet, but it’s getting there: at a slow glacial pace, sure - but it's getting there. 

Derek snaps back into the present at the sound of Doctor Morrell’s voice. “This treatment is for the both of you, but you _do_ need to be very careful and considerate in your own life choices for a while, Derek.”

“What do you mean?” Derek asks, brow furrowing in slight confusion.

The doctor sighs and leans forward speaking softly, “I mean that I can see the look in your face, and I know what it means when you look like that.”

Derek can feel his cheeks colour, he wonders if he will forever be that utterly transparent.

“It’s my job to notice things,” she continues quietly. “I only know a very rough background of your history with Isaac’s mom, and I can see that someone else, someone new has captured your attention, but I just want you to be careful.Things are still too raw and too open to begin a brand new relationship.”

Derek simply nods because everything she says is the more articulate version of the words stumbling around his mind in the recesses of the night. Derek bites the inside of lip. “I understand, Doctor Morrell. Thank you.”

When he and Isaac say their goodbyes to Doctor Morrell about ten minutes later and they walk out to Laura’s car it’s not that Derek feels cured. It’s not like that at all; it’s more like he has half a chance at making things better for himself and his son.

He's is not _even_ going to think about Doctor Morrell’s parting words concerning Stiles. Instead he focuses on his baby, he sees how talkative Isaac is and he just revels in the peace.

Derek makes an attempt to take bite out of Isaac’s burger when they’re seated comfortably in the fast food diner and grins despite his son’s indignant cry.

“Hey!” Isaac protests, furrowing his eyebrows. The hand holding his burger pulled far from Derek’s reach and his other tiny hand is splayed out over Derek’s mouth, halting his pseudo-biting motions. “It’s _my_ food, dad!”

Instead of dignifying that with an answer, Derek wraps his lips around his teeth and pretends to chomp on Isaac’s fingers, delighting in his son’s enchanted squirms of laughter.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this, I have never been involved in therapy so most of what I know is from when I studied Psychology last year (so Bandura, Freud, Samuel and Bryant and Piaget) and then the research I undertook myself in this past week. I referenced the Developmental Psychology Section in The Volume Library Volume 1 (2008) 
> 
> I also pretty ad-libbed (nearly verbatim) some videos from the Child Mind Institute channel on Youtube - so you can check them out too. If I have in any way misrepresented therapy don't hesitate to let me know so I can change it :) 
> 
> See you next week you guys!


	7. Into the Wild

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really, really love this week's song - it's something that I came across it quite by accident and then I just fell in love :) Also, I really love the fact that you guys are coming to talk to me on my tumblr (you know who you are :D) and I'd love lots more of you to come along - ohmycumberlord.tumblr.com  
> We do a bit of reminiscing about Kate in this chapter so allusions to domestic abuse are made, okay?  
> Also, for Noah (yes he makes an appearance!) I used Clement Chabernaud who is my favourite male model of all time (of all time!) he's gorgeous and French (we'll pretend he's American for this fic) and he's the cutest thing, I love him so much. Sigh.

[Step out into the wild, there's a beautiful storm in your eyes.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OWlKZ6C7cDY&list=PLgnxrTrD23zQLT9ILLqmwjuXZFWlp1MSr&index=7) 

-

Sunday morning begins, for Derek, with the spread of warmth from little fingers splayed out on his cheek. He's lying on his side, his sheets in a tangle all around him and he can sense the sheer _earliness_ of the morning just going by the brightness against his eyelids. A cool breeze flutters against the skin exposed beneath his tank top as Isaac huffs his way beneath the covers.

“Dad?” he hears him whispering, as he rubs the palm of his hand against Derek’s stubble in a waking pressure. “Daddy, are you sleeping?”

“It’s too early, Isaac,” Derek groans, he snakes an arm around the small body of his son and pulls him into a warm, sleepy embrace. 

He can hear Isaac’s breathless giggles as he situates himself more comfortably against his father. He tucks his head against Derek’s collarbone but then he doesn’t stop wiggling around - like a never ending bundle of extraneous energy made solely to prevent Derek from returning to the blissful land of sleep and silence.

Derek finally cracks one eye open to peer at Isaac, he’s tucked in safely between Derek’s arms with his face barely two inches from Derek’s, watching him intently. Derek blinks, looks at him properly and tries to insert as much vexation as he can into his gaze but then Isaac smiles a brilliant, blinding grin and Derek just _liquefies_.

The feeling oozes out of him in radiating waves of love and affection and he can do nothing but just stupidly grin back at his son.

He misses moments like this, when Isaac would just crawl all over his parents’ bed with some demand or other for the weekend. It hasn’t happened in a long time, and truth be told it feels a little strange not having Kate’s golden hair spilling all over the pillow, eyes hazy with sleep whilst lying on the other side, Isaac nestled between them.

On her good days, rare though they were, when Isaac was barely two years old, Kate would sling her arm over his body to thread her fingers through Derek’s, her other hand would gently card through Isaac’s tumble of curls as the murmurs of meaningless conversation churned around them, like ink swirling carelessly in the ocean, until they'd quietly fall back into sleep.

Derek would sigh and hum contentedly, cherishing those few precious moments because these were the moments where he could almost forget everything. Between the quiet companionship and the warm feeling of family and affection, _his_ Kate would appear: the one he fell in love with.

He always knew that the moment wouldn’t last and that at some point, inevitably, those blissful minutes spent in love and comfort would shatter, like crystalline hearts and he’d be left yearning for someone that never was.

But in those minutes, those easy minutes, he could pretend that he was still in love with the woman he fell for.

It hadn’t been like that for a long time now, in the last two years of their lives weekend cuddles were exclusively a father and son event. There were no more sweet caresses and easy smiles between them and Kate. Instead, Isaac would curl up against Derek’s warmth and Kate would lie opposite them, always watching, as if she wanted to touch, to _connect_ , but never quite daring to.

Lately they hadn’t even had _that._  

Kate was always aloof, always angry and Derek just didn’t understand why. He has obsessively replayed every single aspect of their relationship, second guessed every single choice he'd made - and the ache of it just attacks him without respite.

The guilt eats away at him and he wonders, can't _stop_ wondering, about things that just tear his soul to pieces.

How long had Kate been hurting Isaac? When was the first time? How scared must Isaac have been? How betrayed must he have felt? How many times had Derek come home and carried on regardless, dismissing all the signs and ignoring his son’s hurt?

The inside of Derek’s skin crawls in consternation and a deep loathing of himself and he wonders how much pain his baby has gone through?

He shuts his eyes tightly and presses his face to his son’s curls, smells the citrus and cinnamon scent that makes up Isaac and wills away the tears that sting at his eyes.

He has no idea how much time passes like that, with him fiercely hugging his son and breathing in deeply to drive the sadness away.

After a while, Isaac struggles to pull away and Derek relents unwillingly, sighing deeply to himself because hugs with Isaac will never be long enough. Just then he feels a messy, wet kiss placed right in the centre of his forehead.

When he opens his eyes he finds Isaac watching him contemplatively; he smiles a little, pats Derek on the cheek and says, “Don’t be sad, daddy.”

It feels like somebody has punched Derek squarely in the gut. The air whooshes out of his lungs, leaving behind a stinging sort of happiness, and his mind shorts out with the utter impossibility of his swelling heart.

Derek does the exact same thing to Isaac when he has hurt himself, or when he sulks, or when he is just plain upset. Pats his hair and kisses his cheek and he says, "Don't be sad, puppy."

Now, Isaac senses his father’s sadness weeping out of him and he comforts him in the best way he knew how: in the same exact way that his father comforts him. If that doesn’t make Derek the happiest man alive, nothing else will.

He smiles, laughs a little even through his wretchedness.

“Okay,” he tells him. Derek nods altogether too eagerly but he smiles and he says, “Okay.”

Isaac places his head on the pillow and raises his hand to wipe away the tears on Derek’s face, pulling an appalled look at the watery residue on his fingers, and he hastily wipes his hand on Derek’s tank. Derek chokes out a laugh and presses his face to Isaac’s chest. 

Derek wouldn’t mind never having to leave the house again if it afforded him moments with his son just like this. He's already feeling resentful of the fact that he has to go to work come Monday - it has been too many weeks of him not being at the helm of his company and his associates can't possibly handle any more free reign within the company.

He sighs deeply, if he didn’t love his job so much, or need it so much as he does, Derek would give it up in a heartbeat.

“Can we go to the park?” Isaac says quietly like the moment calls for it, rubbing fascinated fingers against his Dad’s morning stubble.  

“Later,” Derek murmurs lazily, his eyes already closing. “Sleep now.”

-

Derek loves his little Isaac.

There is absolutely no doubt in the world about that - but _by god_ his little boy can be annoying.

He chatters his way through breakfast, with altogether too many words and too little pauses for it all to fit into his tiny body, and he almost inhales his cereal, pausing only to take a deep breath, before proceeding to mangle sentences together between chewing.

He trails after Derek the whole morning; a silent shadow with his toothbrush firmly in his mouth as he watches his dad.

Derek walks past a doorway and not three seconds later his miniature coalescence of genes follows. He sits down on his bed to pull his socks on, and Isaac huffs and puffs his way up the bed to watch.

So, eventually Derek pauses and stares at Isaac, an eyebrow raised in question.

Isaac just grins and shrugs his shoulders, “I’m excited.”

“If you’re so excited, go get yourself dressed,” Derek grumbles back, eyeing Isaac’s pyjamas. Isaac pins Derek with a look and presses his lips together over his toothbrush, before he jumps off of the bed and saunters towards the hall without a look back.

Derek knows that Isaac is only so excited because it's Sunday, and Sunday means that Uncle Vernon teaches little league at the park, which _then_ means that today Isaac will get to see him.

Apart from Derek, Boyd might just be Isaac’s favourite person in the entire universe.

If he wasn’t so jealous Derek would see how wonderfully endearing Isaac’s love for Boyd is.

Derek loves it really, though.

He fondly remembers late summer weekends spent with Isaac, Erica and Boyd through the years, the way that Boyd doesn’t mind at all when Isaac calls him ‘Vernon’ and how Isaac would attach himself to Boyd’s leg like idle sloth or climb on to his shoulders and have Boyd steer him as he flew through the air like a [tiny planet explorer](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Edh_8LMpReY).

He remembers the way the sun dipped behind the horizon and the moon stretched out lazily in the sky, and the four of them sat in Erica and Boyd’s backyard as a million and a half fireflies flitted in the vanilla-sweet air and filled the night with songs made of light and euphoria.

He doesn't ever want to forget those weekends.

Derek later finds Isaac puzzling over the clothes in his wardrobe, a frown detailing his face and his fists on his hips. And so to avoid an extensive, _extensive_ , comparison of which clothes are best according to Isaac, Derek merely looms over his son, reaching into the wardrobe to pull out a Isaac's favourite caramel-coloured sweater, a grey undershirt and his favourite dark brown cords with the suspenders.

He nudges Isaac with his knee and dumps [the outfit](http://sstay-classy.tumblr.com/post/23674567691) his arms. Isaac rumbles happily when he catalogues the clothes in his possession and then quickly gets to getting dressed.

Derek sends out a silent prayer of thanks to Laura for being preternaturally organised and having all of Isaac’s clothes sent over. Derek doesn’t know what he would do if he had to deal with having to re-outfit his little boy's wardrobe; because Isaac, for a four year old, is ridiculously sartorially inclined. 

Derek stoops to fasten Isaac’s suspenders and tie his laces before they head out into the quiet Beaconian streets. He makes sure that the door is firmly locked and clasps Isaac’s hand in a sturdy, firm grip.

Isaac keeps a steady stream of chatter as they head towards the park, holding tightly to his father’s hand as his voice carries over the air. Isaac's oblivious to the looks they seem to garner but it makes Derek uncomfortable, to be watched so intently, so he keeps his head down as he patiently nods along to Isaac’s babbling.

It’s a relief when the wide, pale stone slabs beneath their feet change to the closely cropped green grass of the Beacon Hills National Park. Derek takes a look around and squints in the bright noon sun, but the park looks the same as it always did.

It's an amalgamation of spacious green fields that stop right at the edge of the preserve, opening up to dense forestry on the furthermost edge.1 Derek and Isaac walk hand in hand straight across the green of the field and head to the baseball field on the other side.

They pass the basketball court where Derek and Boyd first met all those years ago, playing on opposite teams only then to bond over a pack of playing cards; the playground where Derek broke his first bone and cried himself into a frenzy; and the water fountain that he had pushed Anthony into when he was twelve, only to then be chased home by his furious older brother.

When they finally see Boyd, he's surrounded by a group of children, all slightly older than Isaac’s own age, in blue uniform shirts with their first names on the back.

Boyd and another person, with the name 'SCOTT' printed in the large white letters across the shoulder blades of the same sports shirt as Boyd and their team wear. He stands in front of the group as they explain the rules and plans for the day. Derek realises that this Scott, with the curly brown hair, crooked jaw and the perpetual grin, is the same Scott that Stiles continually anecdotes.

The field is a sandy square area near the edge of the preserve, with a dark green diamond right in the centre where parents, carers, siblings and babysitters linger on the far periphery of the bleachers on the opposite side. Boyd’s face is the picture of concentration; he towers over the children with his hands on his hips and yet another blue shirt tucked into his back pocket, he looks like a proper teaching coach and the children look up to him with respect and reverence.

Isaac’s whole personhood is a tad more anxious now, as if he's only just realised that there would be so many new strangers surrounding his Uncle, so instead of rushing up to him and hugging the life out of him, like he normally would, he instead trails morosely after his father to the empty bench placed in front of the gymnasium.

Isaac watches the children run around getting on their helmets and picking up their bats with eager clumsiness and he's leaning forward, looking so much like he wants to join in that Derek’s heart wrenches.

A little girl, of about eight years, is in the middle of trying to pull on her batting gloves when she catches sight of Isaac and Derek. She straightens up and moves towards a cluster of boys and girls standing close to her and they all begin to confer.

Isaac watches the scene unfold with his characteristic curiosity; but his face turns carefully blank as the group of children turn to look at him with a contemplative frown on each of their faces before they turn back to each other and chat once more.

Derek drops his hand on Isaac’s hair, soothingly rubbing the pads of his fingers through his son’s hair in quiet comfort.

Isaac looks a little sad when the group of children move away, walking towards the bleachers on the other side where a large equipment bag is placed. The group throw furtive looks over their shoulder at Isaac as they root through the equipment bag and Isaac sits straight as a rod, nervoulsy swinging his legs beneath the bench.

Minutes later the girl, the one who had first noticed Isaac, emerges from the group and her arms are laden with a small baseball bat, a pair of gloves and a helmet. She makes her way slowly across the diamond, her brown pigtails swinging behind her as she gets nearer and nearer. Isaac stops swinging his legs and instead looks surprised when he realises that she’s making a beeline straight for him, she smiles brightly when she stops in front of them.

“You wanna play ball?” she asks Isaac, then she sheepishly steals a look at Derek. “Only if your dad will let you, though. But everyone wants you to come and play.”

Isaac nods eagerly, looks at Derek for last minute approval before he and his new friend are walking back towards the field exchanging names and easy conversation. One of the kids from the group, a blonde haired boy, is tugging at the Boyd’s pant leg to get his attention, pointing to towards where Isaac and his new friend, Eleanor, are approaching. Boyd smiles, his whole face lighting up as he raises a hand in greeting to Isaac.

Derek can hear Eleanor and Isaac’s conversation dwindle away the further they get and Boyd walks meets them halfway, kneeling to hug Isaac. Even though Derek can’t see Isaac’s face he can clearly imagine the look of surprise and wonder and _happiness_ as Boyd reaches for the shirt tucked in his back pocket and hands it to Isaac.

Isaac’s suspenders are unattached and his yellow jumper replaced with the blue jersey Boyd presented him with, the name 'ISAAC' printed on the back. Boyd lumbers over to Derek just as Scott kneels by Isaac, fastening his helmet and pulling on Isaac’s gloves - patiently explaining to Isaac the basics of equipment safety.

Isaac seems relaxed around him, nodding along to whatever Scott is saying with a steely face of concentration, Derek is mildly surprised at the shy smile his little boy offers Scott but he’s glad that Isaac feels up to making new friends.

Derek stands to take Isaac’s clothing when Boys reaches him, says, “You had a jersey all ready for him?”

Boyd smiles and clasps Derek’s outstretched hand to pull him into a hug.

“Obviously," Boyd says, clapping Derek's back. "You know I couldn’t resist the chance to teach him a little ball; I was just waiting for you to get with the program, man.”

He cuffs Derek around the head and drops onto the balls of his feet, pulling his fists in front of him to jab lightly at Derek’s chest, “One day, I might teach him exactly how to shame his old man into an early retirement."

Derek instantly moves into position, pseudo-blocking Boyd's jabs with shouts of finesse.

Boyd continues, "Tell Isaac exactly how I defeated your ass time and again as we grew up.”

They bump their fists against each other echoing the hours and hours spent sparring in Boyd’s backyard in their adolescence, and Derek teases, “You want to tell him how I round-housed you so finely that you were a crying mess in front of Erica, or should I?”

“I’ll tell him that you broke your first bone when you were fifteen and cried like a baby,” Boyd smirks, pushing away from Derek as he begins to jog backwards.

Derek vehemently denies such an occurrence and points a finger at him, “You watch your back _Vernon_ , I’m coming for you. You better watch it.”

-

Isaac is instantly surrounded by a horde of children asking his name and helping him adjust to the game, Isaac smiles shyly at everyone but even from this distance Derek can tell he's feeling overwhelmed.

He regularly turns to make eye contact with Derek, as if reassuring himself of his father’s presence. Derek nods patiently each time, holds a steady gaze with Isaac and tries to convey the reassurance that he’s right there and he won’t be going anywhere.

Boyd dispels the crowd around Isaac and his little boy seems to breathe a little easier, he holds on to his Uncle’s hand as he leads him around, making introductions. Derek watches Boyd and Isaac walk back to huddle with the rest of the team in the pitcher’s square as the game starts.

The truth is that Derek is feeling just as anxious as Isaac is. It’s discerning for Isaac to not be near him, for Derek to not be able to reach out and touch him, to _feel_ that he’s okay. Not to mention the fact that he’s playing baseball, and Derek remembers the scrapes that he and his friends would get as a result of the sport and he’s _concerned_.

It’s stupid and an unnecessary because Isaac is four years old, he has at least another decade of mindless injuries to go through but Derek doesn’t want him to hurt anymore. Isaac has suffered enough hurt to last an entire lifetime.

It’s good to see Isaac like this though, happy and content at being around kids his own age. Derek watches him hold the bat and swing purposefully, he misses the tennis ball that’s flying at him entirely but all the other kids cheer anyway, indulging in their enthusiasm at having such a young kid playing amongst them and Isaac is jumping on the spot in his excitement before he remembers that he is supposed to be running and takes off like a shot.

He runs from base to base all the way around and reaches the final posting before jumping into Boyd’s waiting arms. Isaac wraps his arms around Boyd’s neck but his eyes search for Derek, he beams at his dad and waves, Derek raises his own hand in turn, a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

It's after thirty minutes of Derek breathing deeply and physically restraining himself from running to scoop Isaac up, take him home and wrap him in blankets after every tumble and fall to the ground, that he catches sight of Stiles.

Stiles is standing a little way away from Derek in dark jeans, a plaid overshirt unfastened to show his tee-shirt underneath, an [_American Werewolf in London_ tee-shirt](http://www.lastexittonowhere.com/shop/product/the-slaughtered-lamb/) Derek realises with amusement, huffing a small laugh when he notices that Stiles paired his outfit up with purple sneakers and weathered leather bracelets littering his left wrist.

Stiles doesn’t seem to be happy though, he’s having a quiet and intense conversation with another man; his face is drawn with stress, he and the other man are crowding into each other and the tension wraps around them like a living thing.  

Stiles’ hands are flying wildly as he argues; his voice is low and hard with irritation as it carries over the air to Derek. He can’t tell what Stiles is saying but he can comprehend the dips and rises in the intonation of his voice. 

Stiles’ eyes rake over the other man’s face and he looks saddened, angered and hostile all at once. He moves closer to the other man, turns his face up to him like he’s pleading for him to _understand_.

Derek instantly recognises the signs of a public argument, the proximity and the controlled posture of each man and the way that they punctuate their words with a rigid sense of motion.

He recollects feeling of the sheer inconvenience of public arguments, where the option to hide behind the walls of your own, private home and shout at each other until there was nothing left to say isn't viable and how that, in turn, fuels the argument even more.

He remembers how it feels to have to take each hissed diatribe with a bitter stoicism, to hold himself so tightly so that his feelings didn’t uncoil and splinter, as well as the desperate amount of control it takes to not fall to the ground in desperate lamentation.

The man is Stiles’ boyfriend, Derek realises, and he tries to ignore how his stomach pierces with sharp disappointment as he watches everything unfold before him.

[Noah](http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5pNxS86qIhI/Ty2IsFqn6hI/AAAAAAAAAQs/K809rm0KGRk/s640/tumblr_lf3v1t4RRf1qzmzg8o1_500.png) stands taller than Stiles, with broad shoulders, short light brown hair, a dark cap pulled over his head and a striped t-shirt over his jeans. He’s _gorgeous_ , Derek thinks, he’s closer to Stiles’ own age than he'll ever be and he most likely doesn’t have to burden him with a child or a psychotic ex.

Derek sighs, he really should stop staring at them - but they haven’t noticed him yet and he can’t quite tear his eyes away. They look good together he thinks, and despite the tension exuding from each of them it’s easy to imagine how happy they could make each other.

Derek sits riveted to the scene because standing there is not the Stiles he knows; this one is tired of rehashing an old argument and he looks older, less carefree.

Stiles even holds himself differently here, there isn’t that _constant_ about him. He isn’t moving and being the ball of superfluous vigour he normally is, here Stiles lets his arms drop to his side listlessly and he stands in a stasis, watching, waiting.

Noah on the other hand is chastising and arguing and he looks _hurt_ , like Stiles has said something so unimaginably awful that it takes all of his control not to lash out and start screaming at his boyfriend in the middle of the park.

The moment is broken when they revert back into whispering angrily at each other, then Stiles says something, his mouth moving too quickly and fiercely for Derek to attempt to make sense of the words his lips are forming. Derek watches Stiles take a deep breath, sees him lift his hands to rest on Noah’s waist; he watches Stiles' face spasm with hurt when Noah flinches, pushes his hands away and turns back to leave.

It doesn’t take more than a second until Stiles turns and desperately grasps Noah’s forearm, pulling him back and pulling him close. Derek can see Stiles mouth moving. _I’m sorry,_ he seems to say, _I’m sorry._

Stiles’ hands migrate to Noah’s neck, thumbs smoothing the skin behind his ears in a familiar caress and Derek hates that he feels resentful of that level of intimacy. But Derek has enough self-awareness to realises that his reaction is not solely attributed to his liking Stiles - part of it, yes, but not all of it.

He knows that part of him longs for that level of intimacy in general, his body unwillingly remembers the ghost touches of Kate on his skin, way back when they still touched each other regularly, when the gentle scrape of his knuckles against her cheek wouldn’t be met with surprise and wariness. Back when she could lift her hand to his face and he wouldn’t flinch.

Stiles’ head tips to the side as he speaks, his eyes are still sad but there’s no more anger in his gaze. His speech is slower too - calm, collected. Patient.

Derek can see how he’s gently trying to make Noah see his point but he isn’t forcing the subject, he doesn’t want to argue again.

Derek can even see Noah’s face soften from resignation into contrition; his hands fit into the dip of Stiles waist to pull him closer. The way that they hold each other seems so personal and so familiar that it resonates with Derek in a blaze of memories.

Stiles shuts his eyes tightly as they hug, touching from their knees to their foreheads, clutching desperately at each other. Noah is the first to pull away; he touches a thumb to Stiles’ lips with a small, wan smile. They both look drained from their argument.

When Noah dips his head to kiss him, and when Stiles tilts his head backwards and his eyelashes droop to brush the tops of his flushed cheeks in anticipation, Derek looks away.

He tells himself firmly that he shouldn’t feel this way, that he shouldn’t feel pained at the sight of Stiles with someone else, _with his boyfriend,_ because he has no right to. Derek looks down at the hands clasped in his lap instead, he breathes in and out slowly, trying to dispel thoughts of Stiles’ mouth and his laugh and his eyes.   

He forces himself to turn his gaze back towards where Isaac is running around the baseball field, with a large grin behind his white helmet. And all at once _sound_ filters back into Derek’s ears in a rush, the sound of Boyd’s team whooping and cheering, the buzz of conversation hanging in a cloud over the bleachers, the bark of a dog a little farther away, the wind scuttling through the grass.

It’s almost cinematic, the way that other sounds suddenly return and he’s aware of the world beyond that bubble of space that had stretched from his perch on the bench to where Noah and Stiles had been standing.

Derek hadn’t even realised how intently he had been watching Stiles and Noah, so much so that he'd blocked out all the other sounds around him. Now that he realises though he feels like a total creeper.

 _Who the hell watches another couple argue?_  he chastises himself.

Derek inhales a deep calming breath and tries to get over the strange feeling of sound reintegrating itself with his other senses. He sneaks a peek to his right and startles at seeing Stiles steadily watching him. Awareness befalls Stiles' expression as he seems to realise that, from his vantage point, Derek almost certainly saw and heard the argument.

Stiles' cheeks redden in embarrassment and he’s not even watching Noah walking away behind him.   

Derek turns away instantly, and after a tense moment he can see Stiles walking away in his peripheral vision. Derek stubbornly refuses to track Stiles’ progression to the stands with his eyes; he doesn’t want to watch Stiles, doesn’t want to be reminded how he can’t have him by the look of peace and ease in his face.

Everything is about ten times worse now that he can put a face to Stiles’ boyfriend, Derek knows now that Noah'll now be imprinted in his mind. His face will be fresh in his memory when he inevitably makes up the list in his head that shows exactly how much better Noah is for Stiles.

Derek turns back to the field and watches how the rules and constraints of organised sport dissolve, only to be replaced with childish eagerness.

He watches the swarm of children flit in and around the baseball field so fast that he can barely make any of them out; he watches a small boy fall over and Boyd leading him to the sidelines with a first aid kit in his hand.

He watches Scott hyperbolically fail to swing his bat and fall on his backside in exaggerated clumsiness, only to then laugh along with the giggles coming from the group surrounding him.

Derek closes his eyes and tips his head back in the wan breeze, he tries to block out the sounds of activity bustling about him and tries to concentrate on the fact that he knows he and his son will be home soon and that they can bask in the hush of their apartment.

He closes his eyes for a minute more, trying to quell the way his mind works and overworks and just doesn’t quieten. He huffs out an annoyed breath as his mind continually, restlessly buzzes and he shifts in his seat.

He looks over his shoulder to his left; the gymnasium behind him has been there for as long as he can remember. It’s where he and Boyd and Erica would hang out after school, where he and Erica would box on the weekends.

It's a huge, sturdy edifice, with slabs of white stone and exposed brickwork. Derek knows that the paved path at its side leads to the far gate of the park that opens up right next to the library in town.

He also knows that the worn path slinking in the grass on the other side of the path is a lighter tinge of green to that of the grass around it from years upon years of footsteps, and that it leads to the river creek hidden deep in preserve. He used to take that very same path when he was younger.

It's as he's following this path with his eyes, mind full of memories, that he sees it.

A flash of dark blonde hair fluttering in the wind as the person to whom the hair belongs turns the corner - too fast for Derek to properly see. His heart skips a beat, skips some more and _then_ it feels like Derek can’t breathe.

He can’t really be sure, it was a split second look but the length and the colour of the hair seems about right, the height of the woman seems about right, hell, it was even curled in the same delicate spirals that he remembers.

A feeling of absolute dread clutches at his heart because the person he just saw could very well be her.

It could b-

Derek’s eyes snap back to the field, he straightens his spine and his gaze bounces from child to child to child as he looks for his son. His panic grows and grows in a swirling broth of apprehension in his heart when he can’t seem to _find_ him.

Derek stands up, watching every child with desperation, searching for his son. He flicks his gaze towards the stands, hoping to catch sight of a bright blue baseball jersey.  Derek can’t see him anywhere on the bleachers but he locks eyes with Stiles, and Stiles must read something in his expression because he looks pale and worried as he too stands up from his seat.

Derek walks towards the baseball field, his legs feel like they’re weighed down by lead but he keeps going against even through the overwhelming need to fall apart. He keeps his gaze trained in front of him, searching in vain for his Isaac, for his son’s mop of hair, for his face, for _anything_.

He just wants his son.

“ _Isaac?”_   Derek yells, and the voice he hears shouting doesn’t feel like it’s emanating from him. It feels as though he’s a spectator to everything that's happening, like his body is playing host to this iced void right in the centre of his chest because _he can’t find his son_.

He sees Boyd’s face snap up at the sound of his voice, he looks at Derek and then his expression washes over with a kind of terror as he looks towards the group of children, who have all stopped to regard Derek. He can feel the palpable ripple of confusion as everyone looks around and they can’t find Isaac.

Derek can see Stiles rushing towards him, shouting for him and dodging people as he runs, he can hear Boyd’s frantic shouts for Isaac but Derek can’t physically _feel_ anything but a vague sense of listlessness as he stands there: in the middle of the baseball field turning around and around in hopeless circles, it’s like he’s watching himself drown. “ _Isaac?”_

“ _Where’s my son?”_ Derek roars, his voice carrying across the open air of the field, _“Where the hell is my son?”_

 -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So .... 
> 
> I'll make it better? Maybe? Hopefully? 
> 
> I had a LOT of feelings this week.


	8. Face Down Alibi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys! Hi, how are you? Okay so this coming week is – are you ready for this? – my last week of sixth form! Seriously, Year Thirteen is ending and I will be going to UNIVERSITY at the end of summer, what?
> 
> I also wrote another (ANGSTY) Sterek and it’s called ‘Love Stories and the Fragile State of Mind’ so you know read, review, tell your friends. You know what to do kids. 
> 
> Two songs this week from my favourite bands The 1975 and 30 Seconds to Mars. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy.

[ _We made it through, black and blue and face down._ ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f7JE5LsDcCY&list=PLgnxrTrD23zQLT9ILLqmwjuXZFWlp1MSr)

_-_

It’s said that time slows down as you die - that as life slowly pumps out of you in a slow decadence of fat red droplets, it ravishes you and pulses in your veins, viciously slow and viscous; spearing tongues of fire dividing and devouring you from the inside out.

The grassy knoll of the baseball field meets Derek’s knees in a lurch and he feels this, he feels this as his own heart dies in its cavity and yet he still shouts for Isaac, with a confused kind of panic. His son’s caramel coloured sweater and his favourite soft brown leather suspenders are clutched tightly in his hand as if his heart hasn’t quite understood that Isaac is not there, that Isaac is gone.

Guilt couples with scorching misery and they procreate: creating shards upon shards of pain that splinter and burn the surface of his skin like a thousand regenerations.

Derek kneels like a perfect facsimile of a defeated hero and the feeble illumination of the sun bears down on him in blistering beams like a message from the heavens. Derek would give anything; he would give his _life_ , for the mere confirmation that his son is alive and well.

There is a burning beneath his skin, a relentless pain that destroys him from the inside as his panicked eyes dart around the park. His mind overloads and crashes in an inevitable end with half-abandoned questions and an abundance of _what ifs_?

In a bitter kind of cruelty Derek’s memory reminds him exactly how he had meant to spend a lazy afternoon with his son, watching movies and eating frosted brownies witg tapioca ice cream. And then his mind depicts, with a terrifying clarity, every bitter syllable uttered from Kate’s lips.

_I will kill your son._

It feels as though the world closes around Derek and he can feel the damp desperation in his eyes and the hot spread of breathlessness grip his throat in an iron clench, even as he tries to choke out his son’s name, in the faintest hopes that he he'll materialise in front of him. He closes his eyes and crumples in on himself, hands gripping at the cool blades of the emerald grass.

Gentle fingertips scrabble at his face and he can hear a garbled sort of noise and in another time, another lifetime, that noise would be his name whispered in a desperate appeal. Now though, now, it’s merely a distant rumble, a flimsy attempt at a distraction from the pounding of his heart.

An iced slither of terror wraps around him like the tendrils of a hundred-armed monster and his heart palpitates in time with his callous breaths. It hurts as he feels the air spear into his lungs and he can feel pain lashing in his mind and he only wants his son.

Derek opens his eyes and half focuses on Stiles, unconsciously following the command in the other man’s voice, his kind bronze-eyed gaze latches on to his with a ridiculous kind of hope. Derek feels like he’s broken into a million little pieces and some part of him, somewhere beneath the panic and the guilt and the misery, tries to latch on to Stiles.

His mind scrapes at the edge of his sanity with the need to do this; the absolute need to resurface for Isaac.

And suddenly Stiles isn’t there anymore. Half an instant later Boyd’s infinite eyes are boring into Derek’s, creating craters of compliance into a stirring awareness deep in the recesses of his mind. Boyd’s hands firmly grasp the sides of Derek’s face before he steadily lifts him so that Derek is mirroring Boyd’s own stance.

They kneel there, friend to friend, and Boyd doesn’t say anything but he doesn’t need to. He just stares at Derek with determination marking his face, the skin around his eyes in an ebony tightness that belies the sheer terror that is also wracking through his mind. Boyd expands and contracts his diaphragm carefully and obviously, chest heavin in a controlled way - urging Derek’s own stuttering, staccato breaths to still and to calm.

Derek remembers this, a method that he and Boyd had perfected over the years in the times where Erica went into shock after her convulsions. There was no one around but them to take care of their own, and so they had.

Now Derek focuses on Boyd’s face, his eyes track the russet colour of his friend’s skin, he sees the beads of sweat gather in his cropped hairline and he breathes. He watches this familiar face, and he tries to return, he can feel the determination pulling at his skin and he aches to find Isaac.

Boyd nods slowly, like he can see the re-emergence of Derek Hale. His hands tighten where they frame against Derek’s face with harried affection. Derek grips Boyd’s wrists as breath stutters back into his lungs and he stares at Boyd, he’s so determined to regain motion in his limbs and to do something to find his son that he chokes on air.

With awareness comes the knowledge of his whereabouts. Parents, carers, siblings and babysitters are gathering their children and hurrying them out of the field at Scott’s instructions. He doesn’t look like the goofy kid that Derek thought he was a few minutes ago.

Or was it hours?

It certainly feels like it.

Scott moves with a confidence in his own self, his brows drawn tightly together and a concerned firmness to his mouth. He stands with his legs planted firmly apart, watching the hagglers hurry out of the scene. And standing by his side, holding her own authority, is the girl: Allison, was it?

She looks equally as determined, directing people out of this part of the park, her long hair curled into a low bun and a hand wrapped tightly around Scott’s forearm. She’s trying to help, that much is obvious and Derek doesn’t know how long she’s been there. But in that moment all he can see in her is Kate.

His heart convulses and he’s begins to fall apart again but the hands cradling his head tighten as he tries to retreat into himself.

“No,” he hears Boyd snarls from deep in his throat. “Derek. Come on man, stay with me. Stay with me.”

Derek shakes his head a little; he doesn’t like this version of events. It wasn’t supposed to turn out this way, they were supposed to be _happy_ , they were supposed to be away from Kate and they were supposed to be safe. He turns his eyes somewhere behind Boyd’s shoulder and his heartbeat staggers in his chest.

Stiles kneels on the ground and watches him, he looks distraught: pale, anxious and troubled. His hand twitches where it rests against his thigh, as if he wants to reach out to comfort Derek. It feels like they gaze at each other for an eon but in reality it is no more than an instant. Still, an unspoken treaty of solidarity surges between them, rising high and mighty like Poseidon amongst the waves.

Derek looks back at Boyd and he feels the steely grips of humanity attaching itself to him, sheathing his skin in renewed vitality and he fights his way to the surface and they stand.

“We’re going to find him,” Boyd tells him, placing a large hand on Derek’s shoulder and squeezing.

Terror taints Derek’s cheeks with a deep rose and shame floods him, he’s shaking, trembling in Boyd’s grip. “I think I saw her, I- think she was here.”

Derek can see the transformation of Boyd’s face as he works out which ‘she’ Derek is talking about; he sees the wisps of fear lick at the edge of Boyd’s gaze. Boyd’s grip turns almost painful on his shoulder and when he speaks his voice is strained and thin, “Are you sure it was her? Derek, did you _see_ her?”

“I don’t, I didn’t see her face but-,” Derek ducks his head, licks his lips and pushes away thoughts of the night they had fled.

“It might not be her then, if you didn’t see her face,” Boyd reasons, his face morphing into one of dogged determination. “Someone would have seen if she grabbed Isaac.”

“Like someone saw when he disappeared, right?” Derek snaps, his voice hissing out over the air between them.

Derek instantly regrets saying that, he doesn’t even mean it and it hurts even more to see the spasm of upset flicker across Boyd’s features, the hard set of his jaw.

“You’re right,” Boyd says quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” Derek replies. “Jesus, _no_ , Boyd. It’s not your fault. It’s mine, I was distracted. I’m sorry, I just. I _need_ to find him.”

Boyd always was a natural born leader, always looking out for Derek when he inevitably failed in his misgivings. So it’s no surprise, in fact it's more of an undeniable comfort, to have Boyd nod gravely instead of arguing over whose damn fault it is. 

“We’ll find him,” Boyd promises. “You didn’t see her face, it might not be Kate.”

A dangerous spark of hope ignites, white hot below his ribs.

Derek hadn’t actually _seen_ the woman and Kate is not the only blonde woman in the world. It' a great coincidence that Isaac had gone missing at the exact same time, almost too much of a coincidence to be credible, but Derek clutches at this hope with a vicious tenacity.

“Where-? Where then?”

Derek tries to remain lucid and present but it's so damn hard when his whole world is collapsing in on itself. He takes a deep breath and takes a look around himself; he sees the stragglers that stand around the baseball field, men and women in small groups waiting for instructions.

The kindness of strangers is something that Derek had long forgotten, they stand with a mixture of apprehension and purpose, and they incline their heads in grave acknowledgment when they catch Derek’s eye and he finds himself returning the sentiment.

From the far reaches of the park Derek can see a group of police officers cutting across the grass and walking towards them. Leading the pack is Sheriff Stilinski himself and Derek wonders how long he was locked in his own mind for enough time to have passed so that police reinforcements to arrive. Shame creates a whirlwind in his stomach because whilst he was busy in his desperation, his son was still missing.

Instead of wallowing in his own misery he could have spent the time looking for his son; if anything happens to Isaac he'll never forgive himself. God, he doesn’t know what he'd do.

His heart beats faster in his chest but the hand on his shoulder tightens, giving him enough strength to clamp down on his oncoming panic. 

But when he looks up at his saviour, Boyd's not even looking at him. He’s locked into a serious conversation with the Sheriff, and Derek realises that the gesture of comfort was an unconscious movement.

He’s broken down once and he will be damned if he’s going to break down again, he resolves finally, Isaac needs him.

Derek feels a pang then, as he watches the Sheriff’s eyes soften with affection as he squeezes Stiles’ neck. Stiles whose cheeks are stained red despite the whitish tone of his skin. It brings into sharp focus the fact that Isaac’s disappearance is the reason they are gathered in a haphazard group on the deserted baseball field.

Boyd’s hand remains firmly on Derek’s shoulder, like an anchor, and Derek feels that if Boyd were to let go, he would burst, atoms scattering across the skies. So he leans into the touch and tries his hardest to quell the nausea churning in his stomach, turning his whole being into a toxic mix of pain and desperation.

He locks all of his miserable thoughts and his wretched speculations about Kate away and he hangs on to the hope that Isaac is okay.

“The preserve,” Stiles mutters, quiet and abrupt.

Everyone turns to look at him, a sudden hush overcomes the nervous chatter of the group and Stiles is staring at the darkened alcove of trees that lead off into the relative darkness of the forest.

Derek can hear the murmurs of consideration float around, unknown voices saying how easy the forest is to get lost in, and how a boy of a mere four years would likely wander off.

They don’t know how fervently Derek wishes for the lesser of two evils. Because if he has the choice of Isaac wandering off into the forest of unknown dangers or being within the reaches of Kate’s poisonous claws.

There's absolutely no doubt as to his decision.

-

Derek feels lost among the tall trees in the midst of the preserve; they reach tall heights in the sky and blossom bright green leaves that unfurl into the blue of the air. He can smell the oncoming spring in waves of mildew and vegetation. The mist is thick and dragging and it gathers on the dark ground of the forest floor, floating aimlessly as it curls around tree barks and human legs alike.

It feels like a lifetime since that morning. Derek can hardly believe that the sun still remains in the sky, high enough to cast long shadows all around him as the air cools and the earth of the forest prepares for dusk.

The transition from his panic at Isaac’s disappearance to now is one that went unnoticed by him. Hours must have ticked by since Isaac went missing but Derek only recognises the gaping absence of his son.

Two dozen volunteers scour the preserve, beams of light shimmering in the air and cries of his son’s name fill the space, intermingling with the natural sounds of the forest.

Derek and Boyd track side by side as they too shout into the nether, Derek’s entire body feels fraught with tension and anxiety. He can’t even begin to think of how scared Isaac must feel, alone and without his dad.

He's not even touching upon the fact that Isaac might be with his mother. The look in her eye as he and Isaac had left for the final time is something that Derek will never ever forget, so he hangs on to the hope that Isaac has simply wandered off, _that_ he can deal with.

Isaac has always loved forests; Derek knows that, he would see it in his son’s eyes every time that they went for summer walks in the city. It had started when Isaac was a tiny baby in Derek’s arms.

There was a small, crowded wood near their home in the city, and Derek would use it as an escape from the tension at the house. He would bundle Isaac up in blankets in his stroller, he would stick in his earphones and father and son would while away the hours in their very own Arden.

The tradition had continued even as Isaac gained inches, he would always find new things to explore and new ways to make their walks interesting. Over the years Isaac would hold on tightly to his father’s hand as they slowly walked down the paved stone path. Isaac had inherited Derek’s love for nature, his eyes wide and blue watching everything with a keen gaze.

He would tug on Derek’s hand and wander off the path to nose at a bunch of yellow wildflowers or to stick his hand in the cold waters of an ancient stone fountain. Isaac loved to run through the park, weaving in between the trees and fancying that he would be able to hide from Derek.

He would also always walk paces in fronts of the adults, looking back if they weren’t walking fast enough for him and sigh exasperatedly in a manner that was distinctly Haleian.

Derek can’t help but remember all of these happier times; he can’t physically bear the pain that he feels at not being near his son. It’s a numbness that spreads its cold talons from the centre of his chest outwards, tainting everything with a dull mockery.

The forest floor feels strange beneath his feet as if he hasn’t walked this earth a thousand times before in his youth. He takes deep breath after deep breath and he hopes to heaven above that his son is safe.

His eyebrows are drawn tight over his eyes and his mouth is closed in a firm line against the panic that is crawling up his throat. Tension shreds his nerves and he almost wants to disappear, for his entire self to just evaporate, and he can hardly believe it when he hears,

_"We’ve found him!”_

The phrase reverberates across the forest and creates a split second of silence throughout the whole group of volunteers.

They spare a look amongst each other before the Sheriff’s voice comes again clear, high and careening through the quiet of the forest. “We’ve found Isaac!”

Derek doesn’t even realise that he's running until his dress boots are pressing an incessant beat on the forest floor. His heart beats in his chest so hard that it is almost painful, he feels like he’s almost out of breath but he rushes towards the sound of Sheriff Stilinski nevertheless, reaching for it like a beacon of hope.

Derek is sure he's never ran faster than in this moment in his entire life time, faster even than that dreaded night. He breathlessly shouts for his son, using his arms to shield from the branches he’s running past.

He rushes past everyone, hardly sane enough to stop and apologise for pushing them out of the way. The Sheriff turns around as he hears the scuff of Derek’s boots on the floor; he tries to catch Derek before he runs headlong to where Isaac has been found but Derek shrugs from under his grip and tries to keep running.

A sharp pang of air punctures his lungs as he takes in the sight and he falters and falls straight to the floor, fear pulsates throughout his whole body as he sees his son.  

Huddled against a cove of leaves are Isaac and Stiles. Isaac is crying and shaking and curled around his upturned helmet whilst Stiles hovers nearby - not quite touching him but murmuring words of comfort.

Isaac’s face, the grey undershirt he had put on that morning and his knees are all grubby with dirt, crushed leaves litter his curls, grass stains his cheeks and his face, Isaac's  _face_ is streaked with blood.  

There's so much blood. It's on Isaac’s shirt, on his fingers, in his hair, on the forest floor in scattered droplets of red and Derek’s just shatters.

The Sheriff crashes into his shoulder and it shocks Derek into looking at him.

“It’s not his blood, Derek," the Sheriff says, rushed and hushed but controlled. "It’s not his blood.”

Derek stares at the Sheriff for a long few minutes before he turns back to Isaac, he hears what the Sheriff is saying and it echoes through his mind, but he can’t quite separate the blood on his son and the idea that Isaac is unharmed.

He stands to make his weary way towards Isaac on shaky legs and all but collapses to his knees in front of his son. Isaac cries harder when he catches sight of Derek, and stretches his hands towards his father. Derek pulls him into a tight embrace.

Derek gently pats him down, searching for any injuries, and he shushes Isaac with kisses and a warm hand on his back as he shakes and grips Derek’s shirt tightly. Derek kneels with Isaac pressed in close and catches Stiles’ eye, sharing a look of pure relief.

Stiles takes out Isaac’s blood-sodden baseball jersey from out of the helmet and cradles it close to him. From the bundle in his arms emerges the furry snout of a German Shepherd pup that makes mewling, hurt noises as it bleeds from a gunshot wound and simultaneously attempts to cradle its broken paw.

The pup’s cries is what Isaac heard as he wandered close to the edge of the preserve, and followed because he had too much of a tenacious curiosity to be safe. He'd taken off his jersey and made a nest in his helmet and carefully placed the puppy in it, just like he watched birds do in the nature documentaries he's forever watching, before he realised that he was lost.

So he'd wandered for hour upon hour in the forest, scared out his mind and searching for his dad.

“I was so worried, Isaac,” Derek whispers into his hair, pulling him all the more closer to him. “It's okay, baby, Daddy’s here. It’s okay now.”

-

 

[ _I fell apart but I got back up again. And then I fell apart but got back up again._](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y5HA-QFLJzg&list=PLgnxrTrD23zQLT9ILLqmwjuXZFWlp1MSr)

-

It feels surreal to be in the quiet of his home after everything that has happened that day. The pup that Isaac had found had been taken by Scott to Doctor Deaton’s veterinary clinic and was spending the night being treated, but only after multiple reassurances to Isaac that they would go see the pup the very next day.

Isaac had been taken to a hospital for a check up as a safety measure, and Derek had taken him straight home afterwards. He'd fed him supper then washed the blood and the grit from his hair and changed his bandages, all the while trying his damn hardest not to break down.

The hour now finds Derek sitting on his son’s bed, brushing soft fingers through his silken hair long after Isaac has fallen asleep. Derek has no idea whatsoever how long he's been sitting there, frozen in place and listening to the steady breaths of his son.

His mind has been such a rush all day long, like a swinging pendulum turning from frantic worry to utter heartbreak in the space of a single breath.

“Derek?” Stiles calls softly from the doorway. The slight illumination from the hall shows the nervous worry on his face but Derek just stares numbly at him; he'd completely forgotten that Stiles was still in the apartment.

Derek hadn’t wanted to see anyone, only wanted to take Isaac home. So he'd ignored everybody’s worries and trudged on, intending to do it alone, but Stiles had adamantly refused to budge from his side.

Stiles quietly shuffles into the room, wraps a hand around Derek’s arm to pull him out of the bedroom and into the kitchen.

“Come on,” he says at Derek’s initial reluctance. “He’s okay now. Just come out here for a second.”

Stiles makes Derek lean again the kitchen counter minutes later and presses a warm mug of coffee into Derek’s hand. He uses his own hand to curl Derek’s fingers around the mug, tapping his thumb on the back of Derek’s hand soothingly before he backs off to get his own coffee.

They stand in silence in the quiet of Derek’s kitchen, the hum of the refrigerator being the only discernible thing.

Derek holds the mug of coffee until it goes cold in his hands and he doesn’t even realise it until Stiles is gently prising his fingertips from the white-hard grip they have on the porcelain.

“I saw you today,” Derek says. “Earlier I mean. Before Isaac.”

"I guess you did," Stiles turns from where he is pouring Derek’s cold coffee down the sink, he blushes and rubs the back of his neck. “I take it that you saw the whole thing?”

Derek doesn’t answer as remorse fires through his veins, of course he saw it, he couldn’t _stop_ looking and he didn’t even realise that his son was missing, he thinks bitterly.

Stiles moves to stand next to Derek, he begins to nervously arrange and rearrange the multi-coloured straws, that Isaac had insisted Derek buy, on the counter.

“It’s not always like that,” Stiles says softly, and he huffs when he catches sight of Derek’s incredulous expression, because Derek of all people knows what a relationship like that looks like.

“Yeah, okay," Stiles concedes. "It’s - it’s been like that for a while now.”

Derek watches Stiles fiddle with the straws, he’s tying knot after knot on each of them and Derek can see the light tremors in his pale hands. After a while he visibly forces himself to stop and he curls his hands into fists. Derek can see the red tingeing his cheeks with a renewed vigour.

“I’m not-. I don’t think I’m happy anymore,” he says eventually, and then sighs miserably. “I love him still, I _do_. I’m _so_ in love with him, Derek, but. I want - I want other people, I think.”

He bites his lip and looks at Derek with worried eyes. “I – does that make me a bad person?”

Derek shakes his head, crosses his arms over his chest and hunches in on his shoulders, he remembers all too well the feeling of being stuck in a relationship even when your heart still longs for that person, or the person they used to be at any rate.

After tense minutes of uneasy silence and with the incessant curiosity on the forefront of his mind, Derek finally buckles down his courage and he asks.

“Other people?”

Stiles licks his lips anxiously, smiles ruefully at Derek for a long second. He shakes his head, “One other person but I- I don’t think...”

Stiles never does finish his sentence, but hope and a promising sort of optimism has already settled low in Derek's stomach.

It’s been so damn long since Derek has even felt a semblance of optimism, that it scares him a little.

He's painfully aware of each time that his and Stiles’ gaze have lingered on each other for a tad too long, aware of the embers that fizz the surface of his skin whenever they touch and he feels utterly awful as Doctor Morrell’s words echo in his mind.

So ducks his head and lapses into silence once again.

“It was my fault, about Isaac,” Derek says later, with a sad smile flickering across his expression as he nods solemnly. “It was.”

Derek can see the precise moment when his words register in Stiles’ mind and he sighs, “Derek.”

“I was distracted,” Derek interrupts and his voice is thick, like whisky and syrup all at once. “I didn’t see that he was gone until it was too late. And I thought I saw her, _Kate_ , I mean. Isaac’s mom.”

Stiles’ expression twitches minutely at that but he already knew, he'd overheard Derek’s conversation with Boyd on the field.

“I really thought she'd taken him, Stiles. Nobody’s even seen her since the crash and I don’t know what I would have done if she _had_ taken him; she’s playing _games_ and I can’t-”

Stiles moves quickly, until he has an armful of Derek, and he wraps his arms around his belly, pulling them close together.

“It's _not_ your fault, Derek,” he says, hugging tightly.

Derek curls his hands around Stiles’ waist, tucks his head beside Stiles’ and he hangs on, pressing his lips together. He fiercely tries not to break down in Stiles’ arms. He can feel the heat of Stiles' palms as they smooth up and down his spine.

Stiles is whispering small comforts, Derek is sure, though his mind registers nothing other than the soft lilt of Stiles’ voice and the warmth that radiates from his presence. Derek shuts his eyes in an attempt to prevent the salty tang of his tears from spilling over, but Stiles remains tender company, brushing his hands along Derek’s sides.

And Derek is so tired; he’s tired of always having to look over his shoulder for Kate’s ominous’ presence, tired of not being happy and tired of being an utter fucking failure in his parenthood.

Just once, just this _once_ , Derek wants something sweet in his life - something good and cherished and revered. So he takes a deep breath, he turns his head, gentle lips trailing across a heatened cheek, and he presses his lips to Stiles’.

He can hear the small gasp that Stiles makes at the back of his throat as their lips touch. His mouth is soft and warm and the kiss is chaste, but it lingers - languid and easy like moonbeams in a clear winter sky.

Their lips part after a long while and Derek rests his forehead against Stiles’ in their embrace. He watches his russet-coloured eyes linger on Derek’s own lips before they drag upwards and lock onto his with a look akin to wonder.

Derek can feel the calm loitering in the shared air of the tiny millimetres creating the distance between them. He watches with hallowed hope as Stiles gently bumps his nose against Derek’s, urging him to tip his head back and Stiles tilts his head slightly and his eyes slide shut.

Stiles presses his lips to Derek’s for an instant, before his tongue darts out to taste him, Derek’s mouth falls open on a low gasp and Stiles unwraps his hands from around Derek body to curl around his face. He nips at the fullness of Derek’s bottom lip and presses another kiss to Derek’s mouth.

“Derek,” he murmurs, a tiny shake of his head, a breathless laugh and he's kissing Derek.

He sweeps his tongue into his mouth, curls his tongue around Derek’s, and he _savours_ him. He presses thumb along Derek’s jaw line, dragging the pad over the hard line of it so that their every inch of exposed skin is touching and he peppers sweet kisses on Derek’s lips with bated breath, before he swoops in once again to kiss him full and long and deep.

They bite and they pant and they kiss each other as if the world itself is crumbling around them, but Derek doesn’t care, because Stiles?

Stiles tastes like heaven. 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tadaa! 
> 
> Also, do you guys like the songs I link in with each chapter, do you think it fits? Do you even listen to it? It's okay if you don't, I'm just wondering :) Let me know if you listen to them and like them and whatnot.


	9. Give me Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So another week, another chapter and school is out! One exam down, and nine to go - so bear with me you guys. 
> 
> There's a scene in this chapter which echoes a similar scene in Parade's End, you'll know it when you see it if you're aware of Parade's End but yeah. I love that scene and I thought it'd be perfect for Derek and Isaac!  
> Also, just a heads up but Isaac has a night terror in this chapter, it's pretty bad, but it gets better! :)

_[All I want is the taste your lips allow.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FOjdXSrtUxA&list=PLgnxrTrD23zQLT9ILLqmwjuXZFWlp1MSr&index=11) _

-

Derek loses track of time as he kisses Stiles. The kiss is sweet and chaste, deep and wanting - their mouths colliding in softness as their breaths catch on each other.

Rockets and firecrackers of radiance burst and fall in showers of ardour behind his eyelids and Derek feels like Stiles is too much and not enough at the same time.

So he kisses him, because Stiles tastes like coffee and light and everything that Derek could ever possibly want in a person. He presses his hands to the dip of Stiles’ waist over his overshirt, like they belong there, and he kisses his mouth like he has any right to, making soft, low susurrations as if this isn’t wrong at all.

When they both come up for breath, their exhalations mingling in the sweet air between them, Derek presses his forehead to Stiles’, even as his mind begins to whiz with all sorts of unwanted tension. The apartment around them is silent, the sounds of Beaconian civility dulled by the double glazed windows and Derek swears that he has never felt more peaceful, here in Stiles’ arms.

He licks his lips unhurriedly, tries to memorise the way that Stiles tastes and he watches Stiles, who has yet to open his eyes, smile breathlessly as puffs of air catch in the back of his throat. Derek watches the burning rouge spreading across Stiles' cheeks, the shimmering contour of his lips and the long lashes barely brushing the tops of his cheekbones.

Stiles, meanwhile, rubs idle fingers through the hair at the nape of Derek’s neck, making him shiver and huddle ever closer. Stiles hums contentedly in the space between them; sighs restfully as he drops his head to Derek’s shoulder, curls into him.

They stand like that for a long time, breathing together, chests pressing against each other each time Stiles’ breath coils around the skin of Derek’s neck, like a vapour. Yet reality makes an unwelcome presence and Derek can’t describe just how much that kiss should not have happened. 

Stiles lifts his head, with heavy eyes and searching lips. But as much as he wants to, Derek knows he can’t kiss him again. So he places gentle hands on Stiles’ broad shoulders and firmly nudges him back. Surprise flitters across Stiles’ expression before he catches sight of the grim look of misery on Derek’s face.

“We can’t,” Derek says quietly, despite wanting nothing more than to wrap Stiles up in his arms forever.

They stare at each other for a long time, and the silence that not so long ago had provided a sanctuary of warmth and comfort around their bodies now feels stifling and hostile.

He drops his hands from Stiles’ shoulders and curls them into stiff fists at his side. He takes a step backward, trying to shuffle closer to the counter behind him.

“Derek?" Stiles says; an appeal and a question all rolled into two broken syllables.

Derek looks up and catches Stiles’ wide and disbelieving gaze. He looks _hurt_ , his mouth is trembling where he has pressed it into a tight line and Derek can see the tremors of embarrassment running over his pale skin.

Derek clamps down on the urge to avert his gaze from Stiles’ face. He looks him squarely in the eye, sees the uncertainty and the awkwardness pooling there, and he says, “We _can’t_ , Stiles.”

But determination makes a fiery return to Stiles’ face and Derek almost wants to smile because this is just like Stiles. He never lets anything get him down for too long, not without wanting to break down whatever barriers and restrictions prevent him from achieving what he wants.

Derek can practically see the cogs in Stiles’ mind turn and, like a well oiled machine, churning out ideas and ways of refuting Derek.

But before Stiles can even open his mouth to start speaking, a high, terrified scream tears its way through the fragile fabric of the silence around them.

Derek’s out of the kitchen like a shot, rushing down the hall and opening the door to Isaac’s room.

The bedroom is dark, the curtains pulled closed against the bright light of the moon, the [Panda nightlight](http://www.jaijai.co.uk/lumilove_panda_night_light.asp) that Derek bought casts a purple glow onto Isaac’s bed where his little boy is sprawled out in the centre, with his duvet kicked to an ungainly pile at the foot of his bed. He’s crying, kicking out against nothing and screaming for Derek.

Derek hurries to his side, clumsily kneels on the floor as he gently pries Isaac’s hands from his face. But Derek can already see the vicious red lines forming across Isaac’s cheeks from where he has scratched at himself in his terror.

Isaac’s limbs are stiff and unyielding and Derek’s so afraid of hurting him but manoeuvres Isaac so that his arms are trapped between his chest and Derek’s. And still he thrashes, kicking out against Derek’s side with his eyes large and unseeing.

It always terrifies Derek seeing him like this, so utterly vulnerable and miserable as he cries at something that’s not even there, something that manifests, nasty and odious, in his son’s bright mind. This is one of the worst night terrors that Isaac has had ever since he began having them, the stress of the day no doubt playing a dominant role in his memories.

Stiles hovers in the doorway watching anxiously, standing in the threshold with a white-knuckled grip on the doorframe. He moves as if to approach their huddled figures but Derek bites out a sharp, “ _Don’t._ ”

Stiles freezes in his tracks, looking gauche and ineffective. Derek turns his back to him, blocking his view of Isaac as he lashes out against Derek’s grip.

Stiles’ presence feels weirdly invasive, like he’s invading this profoundly private world of him and his son and Derek feels like he has to shield Isaac’s vulnerability from being seen.

Derek presses a kiss to Isaac’s sweat soaked hair and he shuts his eyes tightly, grunting when Isaac’s knees make contact with the soft weaknesses in his side.

“Can I do anything to help?” Stiles asks. Derek shakes his head, tells him to go home - Stiles begins to refuse but Derek is having none of it.

“Just _go_ , Stiles,” he says and he detests the cold callousness in his voice, the words lash out into the air, as vicious as a viper but his first priority is and will always be his son, he makes no apologies for that. “I don’t want you here right now.”

The ensuing silence from Stiles is a palpable thing, thick and encroaching, but Derek doesn’t dare turn to look at him, lest he crumble into dust right there. Instead he tightens his grip on Isaac, adjusting him slightly so that his head won’t hit the bedside table as he screams.

Derek's pretty sure that he doesn’t even begin breathing again until he hears the distinct click of the front door closing. Yet the foaming monster of misery in the pit of his stomach still poisons the whole place with a pervading, inescapable sadness.

He spends countless moments rocking Isaac soothingly in his arms, and he buries his face against Isaac’s curls, whispering sentimental nothings as he uselessly tries to comfort his son.

Isaac is mid-scream when he wakes up, the sound sticks and gurgles in a gasp at the back of his throat and, when Derek lifts his head to look at him, his gaze is unfocused and disorientated.

The thrashing stops almost immediately as Isaac takes stock of what’s happening, Derek gently massages his scalp with the pads of his fingers and smiles weakly. 

“Hey,” he murmurs quietly. “Welcome back. You with me, pup?”

Isaac nods but Derek can see the hesitancy tainting his son’s jerky movements. Isaac’s eyes dart around various different points in his room before they re-focus on Derek.

Derek sees the tremble in his lips even before Isaac scrunches his nose. He sees the way that the tell tale frown presents on his face, then his expression crumples entirely and he begins to cry.

This is by far the worst part of Isaac’s night terrors; the confusion in his son’s face, the lingering fear in his erratic heartbeat and the absolutely shocking way Isaac that dissolves into tears because he can’t _remember_ what happened or what had made him so scared.

“Hush now, hey,” Derek whispers, lifting Isaac and curling him to his chest, he rubs his back in wide soothing strokes. “It’s okay, you’re okay.”

Eventually, after a long time, Derek manages to lift the both of them from the ground, he strips the wet sheets of Isaac’s bed and he deposits them in a ball in the corner of the room to be laundered later. He hitches Isaac on his chest, with his son’s arms in a loose circle around his shoulders and his face tucked into his throat.

Derek runs a bath, fingers testing the warmth of the water as Isaac snuffles and nudges closer to Derek. He gently takes off Isaac’s pyjamas and checks his face and arms for any other cuts and scratches before he places him in the bath. Derek sits by the bathtub, crosses his arms across his chest and leans back against the cold tile of the wall.

He closes his eyes and sighs deeply as the day’s events quickly catch up with him. His lips tingle in memory of Stiles’ lips against his and Derek finds himself fervently missing the sensation of his mouth, missing _Stiles_ , which is all kinds of fucked up. 

So, Derek tries to purge his memory of all thoughts of Stiles, and he nearly falls asleep, lulled by the gentle laps of water as Isaac plays with his rubber duck and his plastic dinosaur in the tub, and the way that Isaac hums under his breath, a meaningless tune murmured into the quiet of the bathroom.

He still looks alert when Derek scoops him out of the tub with a large towel wrapped securely around his body. And after Derek has re-dressed him in dry pyjamas and soothed antiseptic over his scratches, Derek sits him at the edge of the bed and gently clips his fingernails before he carries him to the kitchen. 

“I know what to do,” he says into Isaac’s hair, “A glass of warm milk; it’s the best thing for bad dreams.”

Derek has no idea what time it is, but the moon is high in the darkened sky and it's certainly way past Isaac’s bedtime. Evidenced by the way that his son keeps yawning into his glass of milk and rubbing at his eyes as he nibbles on the solitary Oreo biscuit that Derek allowed him.

By the time that Derek and Isaac retreat to the master bedroom, after a slight diversion to grab Benji the Penguin, Isaac sways slightly in Derek’s arms.

“Now, a little conversation until we’re sleepy, okay?” Derek murmurs against his temple. “That’s what I do. You know, I had bad dreams sometimes, when I was a little boy.”

He rocks Isaac from side to side as his son presses in close to his cheek, “A conversation with my dad always helped.”

Derek moves past his bed, towards the dark oak bedside table. Propped on it is a framed illustration salvaged from Derek’s home in the city. Inside the frame, a sheet of cream coloured canvas paper bears the broad strokes of charcoal.

The lines coalesce and blend to make up the image of the Hale House in the shimmering light of the moon, while standing tall and proud in front of it, is Lycan Tree. The thick ropes of its roots plunging into the lush ground of the front yard, the branches hanging high and wide above them.

“You see that?” Derek says pointing a finger at it. “My dad drew that for me when I was little.”

“Papa did it?” Isaac says a little wonderstruck. Derek knows that his father seldom draws anymore, so it isn’t a surprise that Isaac's unaware of his artistry.

“Yeah, he did. He’s good huh?” Derek hoists Isaac up more firmly against himself and he begins to slowly pace the room, hoping to instil some degree of tiredness in his son.

“I could nearly touch Lycan Tree from my bedroom window, you know?” Derek whispers against his hair. “And all sorts of things hang from that tree, I could hear them at night, things that your aunts and uncles and I used to hang when we were kids, and some things that Papa and _his_ siblings and his friends used to hang when he was a child. They’re supposed to bring good luck.”

Derek rubs a hand on Isaac’s back and he can feel the lethargy seeping into his son as he clutches Benji to his chest and he relies more and more on Derek steady presence beneath him.

“There was a wishing well,” Derek continues softly. “It’s in the old stable yard, but no-one’s used it since I was _tiny_ , tiny. They say that the well is twice as deep as Lycan Tree is high and that you can drop in a dime and make a wish. Should I tell you how long it falls, ‘Zac?”

He can feel Isaac nod lazily against his shoulder and the corners of his mouth lift in infinite paternal fondness. “I used to count as long as this, one …”

Derek sways softly, “Two…”

He whispers the words close to Isaac’s temple as he falls into sleep, “Three… ”

Isaac’s eyes flutter closed and he breathes soundly into Benji’s fur, “Four…”

So Derek moves languidly towards the upturned sheets of the bed, “Five…”

He cradles his hand around the back of Isaac’s head, gently lowering him to the bed, “Six…”

Isaac instantly turns to his side, “Seven…”

And he tucks his small body around his teddy, “Eight…”

Derek pulls up the sheets to tuck around his body, "Nine…”

Derek smoothes a hand through the damp, riotous curls that frame his son’s head like a halo, but Isaac is already sound asleep. Derek smiles, and kisses Isaac’s cheek.

“Ten.”

-

It feels like déjà vu when Derek awakes to frantic knocks on the front door, a sound that fractures the stillness of the apartment in short, periodic bursts. His cell phone buzzes in the pocket of the jeans he'd carelessly discarded, after he'd come back in from firmly locking the door and checking the windows, the night before.

He lies on his back for an idle second, before he turns his head to the left. Isaac stretches out on his stomach beside him, like a starfish, facing away from him and still grasping the sleeve of Derek’s pyjama shirt in his small fist.

The knocks come again and Derek makes a split decision, cursing his cowardice, he gently grasps Isaac and he gets out of the bed, pulling his son against him. Isaac wakes up instantly with his hair standing at odd angles, sleepy eyes and his mouth pursing in confusion.

“I'm sorry, puppy,” Derek says, placing a placating kiss on Isaac’s temple as his son rubs the sleep from his eyes.

He warily walks down the corridor holding Isaac as some sort of ward. His heartbeat picks up in his chest, steadily unlocking the door just as another round of knocks sounds throughout the apartment.

Derek opens the door to Stiles’ frustrated expression and the other man hangs up on his phone call; in Derek’s bedroom his cell stops vibrating.

“We need to talk,” Stiles says the split-second before his eyes fall on Isaac’s figure. Stiles quietens immediately but the look he throws Derek, with taut lips and a disapproving glint in his eyes, tells him that he sees straight through Derek’s actions.

It was stupidly selfish to wake Isaac, just so that he could avoid Stiles’ inevitable conversation, but Derek tells himself that Isaac probably wanted to get up early anyway. He leaves Stiles quietly fuming on the doorstep and moves into the kitchen.

Derek rummages around the kitchen before he rounds the breakfast bar and deposits the necessities for Isaac’s cereal on the counter. He uncaps the milk with a single hand and is in the process of pouring it into Isaac’s bowl when Stiles pushes an apple juice carton into Isaac’s hand.

They stand there in awkward silence, Derek averting his eyes from Stiles’ wrathful gaze, as Isaac sucks on the straw of his apple juice, casting looks between Stiles and Derek and wondering about the pungent tension in the air.

The strain continues all the way through Isaac’s breakfast, like a persistent entity. Derek situates himself on the seat next to Isaac on the table as his son eats breakfast and he calls the office to explain that he won’t be going in.

He scrubs a rough hand through his hair and he thinks of the massive mess that is his life and the frankly inordinate amount of time it is going to take to sort out everything. He needs an assistant, he thinks.

Derek looks up at Stiles perched on one of the bar stools with his head dipped heavily to his hands, his fingers grip tightly to tufts of his dark locks and his shoulders tremble with each laborious breath that he heaves. His phone is switched off and cast aside haphazardly; he looks dejected and Derek feels terrible.

He swallows his pride as Isaac pushes his bowl away and his fingers scrabble at Derek’s closed laptop near the centre of the table.

“Can you go get dressed?” Derek tells Isaac and presses one hand on Isaac’s fists to dissuade him. But Isaac makes a beseeching noise at the back of his throat and reaches for the laptop once again. Derek sighs, “Do this for me, ‘Zac, please?”

Isaac stops struggling then, looks up at his father with a curious, fretful look before he nods and hastily scoots out of the kitchen and down the hall to his room.

Derek gets up with a sigh and makes his way to the coffee machine; he prods the button of the machine and leans heavily on his outstretched palms as the coffee brews. He closes his eyes and tries to sort out through the mess in his head; he searches in futility for a way, _any_ way, to begin the conversation.

But in the end, when he slides the steaming mug of coffee in the near vicinity of Stiles’ arms, the choice in the matter is taken away from him all together.

At first, Stiles doesn’t move his hands from where the heel of his palms are digging into his eyes. Not until long minutes after Derek repeatedly says his name. Only then do his hands finally wrap around the warmth seeping through the porcelain mug, and he takes a deep breath, like he's contemplating what to say.

“You kissed me back,” Stiles says and flicks his gaze to Derek’s; he sounds resigned and drained and awful. "You kissed me _first_."

Derek forces his gaze to remain on Stiles’ and he nods gravely, at a complete loss for what else to say. Stiles smiles then, but it’s all wrong on his face - cantankerous and sad. Stiles looks as lost and lonely as a [captive Andromache](http://allart.biz/up/photos/album/L/Frederic_Leighton/frederic_leighton_40_captive_andromache.jpg), and it makes Derek’s heart ache.

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” Derek says, because he _doesn’t_  and because each reason that his minds does come up with seems inadequate.

Stiles sighs deeply, presses his fingers to his mouth and stares at the ceiling of the kitchen, “I don’t know either.”

When he looks back down at Derek his eyes are hazy and damp. He shrugs his shoulders helplessly, “I don’t know what I want, Derek. I-, I want _you_ but -”

“But you're with Noah,” Derek finishes for him; and it’s so weird saying his name. Stiles has only really mentioned him a handful of times and it sounds clunky and uncomfortable coming from Derek’s mouth.

Stiles nods, "I'm with Noah," he says, firmly. Repeating the words almost as if he’s trying to convince himself as much as Derek.

“Well, that’s just great,” Derek huffs quietly, he turns his back on him and moves towards the coffee machine, further away from Stiles.

He hears the scrape of the stool legs across the kitchen tiles as Stiles stands but it feels like an age before Stiles’ hesitant hand touches Derek’s back. He says his name softly, before he tugs on the grey sleep shirt, willing Derek to turn around.

When he does, Stiles is biting his lip nervously, “I’m sorry.”

After a second of deliberation Stiles takes a step back, crosses his arms over his chest.

“I don’t know what to do, Derek," he says. "It’s gotten really complicated really,  _really_ fast.”

Derek scoffs bitterly, and shakes his head because even after all this time it still stings to be the second choice. It stings, like ice on an open wound, and it hurts to be the one that is left behind. Derek doesn’t think he can do it all over again, can’t have that done to him. Not by Stiles. “What would you have us do, Stiles?”

“We could-,” Stiles bites back the words almost as soon as he utters them and they evaporate in the space between them. He looks almost as surprised as Derek is. He's gearing up with a response but anger fires through Derek in a remarkable way.

“We could what?” he snaps. “Fuck around behind your boyfriend’s back? Make me your kept man so that you can keep us both?”

In an instant blood colours Stiles cheeks like a tidal wave crashing on a beach, and he is _seething_.

“I can’t help the way I feel, Derek," he bites out. “I care about the both of you. You can’t fault me for something I-, for something I have _no_ control over. That’s not fair.”

“But it’s fair game for you to bring me and my son into this? I’m not the only person I have to think about, Stiles.”

"You kissed _me_."

"And you wanted it just as much as I did."  

It's true, Derek knows. They both want each other as much as the other. It's an all consuming feeling, big and heavy in his chest.

Stiles bites the inside of his lip and he nods altogether too much.

“You’re right,” he says, and Derek can see the hard set of his jaw, the way his throat works to swallow despite the dryness of his throat. “I  _am_ sorry for how fucked up everything is, but I’m not going to apologise for the way I feel about you.”

“Where does that leave me Stiles? Huh? I can’t be _that_ for you.”

Derek shakes his head as misery floods him.

“I can’t.”

-

There is a studious silence in the veterinary clinic; the present company’s eyes are all trained on the German Shepherd pup being treated by Doctor Deaton.

The man’s hand now holds a steady pressure on the pup as he checks and changes the bandage on its hurt paw; the sharp snips of scissors, as they cut through the bandages, seems much too loud in the quiet room.

Isaac sits on the metal table too, burrowing against Derek's front, so close that Derek can feel him flinch and twitch each time the pup whimpers in its distress.

Isaac’s eyes are wide and concerned so Derek rubs his side in sympathy.   

The car ride that they had taken over to the veterinary clinic earlier in the day was unbearably tense. Derek had continually caught Isaac’s flustered looks as he tried to figure out what was wrong.

By the time that Isaac had re-entered the kitchen after the dreadful conversation of that morning, Stiles and Derek were wordlessly standing at opposite ends of the kitchen, ignoring the other’s existence.

The silence between them hung as a precarious thread of connection between them even as they all clambered into Stiles’ death trap of a jeep. And once they had arrived, Stiles had attached himself to Scott’s side and Isaac had pulled Derek in close and whispered, “Is Stiles okay?”

Derek still has no idea how to even approach the complications between him and Stiles. How can he tell Stiles that he wants nothing more than to be with him, but that he meant what he told him before.

He has Isaac to think about, he can’t just go headlong in a relationship, an _adulterous_ relationship at that, with Stiles. But the truth unravels in the deepest corner of Derek’s mind and he knows that if Stiles asked him, he would say yes. In a heartbeat.

Derek drops a kiss on to the top of Isaac’s curls and he tries to remember when his life became so hard, when the lines between right and wrong blurred so much that even he can’t make the distinction anymore.

Despite everything telling that he shouldn’t, all he can think about is the taste of Stiles’ mouth, the way that he laughs, the way that he _is_ , and it aches. Derek presses his lips together to prevent the wave of guilt and uncertainty and numbness from taking over him. He closes his eyes for a brief second and when he opens them again he finds Stiles looking back at him.

They might as well be reflections of each other, because in Stiles’ eyes Derek can read and distinguish each and every single thought and feeling that he has also had about their entire situation. Stiles tilts his head imperceptibly, apologising and asking all at once.

But Derek just tightens his mouth into a fraught line and shakes his head firmly, he doesn’t know what he’s denying exactly, but he can’t let himself wonder too much about the possibilities of him and Stiles.

Stiles is his employee, his son’s nanny, and if that isn’t a bigger incentive then he doesn’t know what is. But he’s also _Stiles_. Funny, vicarious Stiles, who reads too much and laughs too loud, who cares so much and tries his damn hardest.

Derek sighs deeply, he doesn’t know what to do, so he turns his gaze from Stiles’ disheartening disposition to Isaac’s puppy.

The puppy lies drowsy and tired on the table with its front right paw wrapped in gauze and a rectangular bandage pad near the top of its spine, where some of its fur has been shorn for Deaton to be able to stitch.

“The bullet just grazed him,” Deaton says, wiping a cloth over the droplets of sweat on his high brow as he speaks, “He’s a lucky one, he broke his paw on a trap. The police found his mother late yesterday evening, but unfortunately, she didn’t make it. We figure it that it's the work of hunters.”

Isaac makes a disapproving sound and his face turns sour and irate and Scott stands over by the wayside, laughing softly at his expression. Isaac catches his eye and smiles back timidly before he turns to look at Derek.

“Can we keep him?”

Derek had anticipated this, already knowing the absolute need Isaac has for taking care of people and taking care of animals.

He remembers the first time Isaac had brought in a tiny bird with a broken wing, the time he cried when he stepped on a snail, the way he always told Derek to _‘put him outside, Daddy, dun' hurt him’_ whenever Derek caught a spider, despite Isaac's adamant refusal to even go near the thing.

Derek prepares to gently, but firmly, tell Isaac all the reason for why they can’t keep the puppy but then Scott speaks up.

“You could, you know,” he says glancing from Isaac to Derek. “I mean, if you wanted. He’s a stray; so he’ll just be waiting for adoption but he’s not a pedigree so his chances aren't that great.”

Derek thinks of everything that’s going on in his life, he thinks of the amount of effort that it’s going to take to get all the provisions for raising a dog and he thinks how his apartment is going to be a constant mess. But then he looks at Isaac’s pleading, hopeful face blinking up at him and whispering _‘please, please, please’_ under his breath like a prayer chant.

He thinks of the pup’s wet muzzle testing the air as it poked out from Isaac’s baseball jersey, and he thinks of Stiles holding the pup close to him in comfort. Derek looks at the pup looking weak and dejected and he just feels a pang of familiar solidarity.

Derek looks at Deaton for a brief second and quirks an eyebrow. The man scratches fingers through his neat goatee and gently pats the puppy’s stomach before he nods in acquiescence.

“Okay,” Derek says, and rolls his eyes affably at Isaac’s loud cheer.

Derek and Doctor Deaton retreat to the man’s office to sort out the legalities of the adoption, the man patiently explains the legal channels and serenely answers all of Derek’s questions regarding the puppy and what he’ll need.

Derek calls Erica briefly to ask whether their apartment building allows dogs and she barely answers that ‘ _Yes, Derek they are allowed. I’ve told you that a million times,_ ’ despite the fact that she actually _hadn’t_ told him, before she’s screeching down the phone about Isaac’s disappearance and demanding to speak to him.

So, naturally, Derek hangs up on her after five minutes of her endless, breathless outburst.  

He does call back two minutes later, though, when he’s sure that she has calmed down, and tells her that they will see her soon and that Isaac is okay, and that Derek is dealing with it.

Derek goes back into the main treatment room, with its wide slabs of white tile and stainless steel surfaces in order to ask Isaac what they should call the pup.

His son is sitting on the operating table, cross-legged in front of Stiles, both petting the dog. They haven't yet noticed Derek's presence and the pup makes a low, mewling sound as Isaac scratches him gently behind the ears. 

Isaac immediately snatches his hand back, looking as if he’s been burned, he turns worried eyes to Stiles.

“Have I hurt him?” Isaac whispers.

Stiles’ calm gaze remains steadily on Isaac and he smiles, “No, you’re not hurting him. You’re taking away his pain.”

Isaac stares at Stiles for a moment in absolute awe, he looks down at the pup and then back up to Stiles and his face breaks out in a wide grin, the corners of his eyes scrunching up, and Stiles can't help but smile back.

“What should we call him?” Derek says as he moves from the shadows of the doorway, he can see Scott, through the window of the door leading to the other treatment room, taking care of a Siamese cat, so he knows that they're alone.

Isaac ponders on the question, _really_ _ponders_ on it. Ponders for so long, with his elbows on his crossed legs and his chin in his hands, that Derek manages to finish filling out the forms and finalising the adoption.

At long last Isaac seems to have made up his mind. He sits up straight and leans back, sinking into Stiles' front. Derek catches the look of pleasant surprise on the other man’s face.

“Wolf,” Isaac says. “I want to call him Wolf.” 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so this week is a bit of a filler chapter but I don't know, I kinda like it. I hope you guys do too but shit is going to go DOWN next chapter. Trust me. 
> 
> I'll see you on Sunday, dudes.


	10. Tell I'm a Wreck because I Want You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo! I hope you guys are well. 
> 
> I included two songs this week, Tell me I'm a Wreck by Every Avenue (everyone should watch that video because it's the best thing ever and it makes me want to cry) and I want you by Kings of Leon (I swear that song is hands down the sexiest song I have ever heard ever, ever.) 
> 
> So give them a listen and let me know what you think :)

[You tell me I'm a wreck, you say that I'm a mess. How could you expect anything less?](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pD-2VsWaJo0&list=PLgnxrTrD23zQLT9ILLqmwjuXZFWlp1MSr&index=12)

-

It’s the weekend when Isaac and Derek can finally take Wolf home. Derek has the Camaro by then and it's a welcome relief to be lulled along the streets by the sleek hum of the engine - the real world taking a step back in light of the artificial soundlessness in the interior of the car. 

Isaac's been the most enthusiastic out of all of them in the preparation of Wolf's homecoming. He spent an inordinate amount of time choosing each item of furniture for Wolf, and even more time with Stiles on the kitchen table making intricate "Welcome home, Wolf" posters;  coercing Stiles into spending hour after hour drawing the same words again and again before he swooped in to colour them in with his crayons.

Isaac remained undeterred, even after he gained the knowledge that dogs couldn't actually read, he had shrugged his shoulders and went right on with colouring in his drawing of his dad. 

Isaac bounces on his toes once they arrive at the clinic, wringing his hands together in excited apprehension, a large smile gracing his face. He giggles a little breathlessly every time he catches his father's eye, pressing his tiny fists to his mouth, the blue of his eyes twinkling with myrrh. 

A poignant sort of love makes a warm home just beneath Derek's ribs when he sees the look on Isaac's face as Doctor Deaton carefully places the pup in the nestle of Isaac's arms. His eyes are wide, his words soft and awed as he coos gentle words to the pup.

Isaac treats Wolf like the pup is the finest crystal chalice he has ever held, bumping his tiny human nose to Wolf's canine muzzle, burying his face in Wolf's golden fur. And Derek thinks that adopting Wolf is the best idea he's had in a long, long time. 

Having Wolf at home is a lot quieter than Derek previously thought it would be. The pup still can't walk much due to its broken paw, so instead Wolf and Isaac curl up in Isaac's customary pile of blankets for hours at a time, watching nature documentaries and cartoons alike.

It gives Derek enough time to set up his office in the spare bedroom, he spends all of Saturday afternoon rifling through the stacks and stacks of boxes populating the room, holding back the hurt of the memories that comes with each uncovered item.

He gets rid of a great deal of things too, and Derek thinks that the overstuffed black bin bags crowding his hallway have some sort of symbolism, some kind metaphysical allusion to the state of his life but he's too tired to try to figure it out. 

So he pushes the thoughts to the back of his mind and he organises.

He puts his books in order, he stacks his records, sets up his computer, arranges his files, connects his telephone and by the end of it he feels ... he feels _satisfied_ ; like at least part of his life is organised. That in turn, gives him hope that he might just be able to untangle the rest of it into some semblance of order. 

Derek later sticks his head into the living room to check on Isaac and Wolf, and the sight that greets him has him fumbling for his cell phone. He snaps close to thirty different pictures of Isaac curled around Wolf's back, an arm and a leg thrown over the pup's side, carefully avoiding his injured paw.

Isaac has his fist curled into Wolf's fur, tufts of it protruding from the spaces between Isaac's fingers and they're both asleep, lulled by the sound of cartoons on the TV, Isaac with his mouth open and drooling and Wolf with his pink tongue lolling out. 

Derek's heart swells when Isaac sighs, curling his tiny toes in contentment and pulling Wolf even closer in sleep. 

Derek prints the picture onto glossy photo paper and frames it in a sturdy in burnished silver case, to be displayed with pride on his desk. He's staring at this picture with a goofy smile on his face, ignoring the mountain of work on his desk, by the time that his mom comes around for a visit on Monday.

"Mrs Hale, hi," Derek hears Stiles say from the hallway. "How are you? Come in, Derek's in the study but Isaac is..."

There's a slight pause before the sound of Stiles' laugh carries through the apartment, "Right here," he says. "Making a mess as you can see." 

They're in the living room, Derek guesses, and he winces a little. The last time that Derek had been in there, some two hours previously, he saw decorative pillows strewn about the place in chaos and sheets of drawing paper and mountains of both Isaac and Wolf's toys littering the floor in an ungainly sight.

When he'd walked in, Isaac's blankets was laid out on the floor and Isaac was lying on his tummy - simultaneously drawing and mouthing the lyrics to the _Fairly Odd Parents_ theme tune on the TV. Stiles was lying next to him, sprawled on his back with Wolf propped up on his chest. He was idly petting Wolf, and the pup was sighing happy little puffs of air under Stiles' ministrations.

Derek hadn't had the heart to break them out of their bubble of contentment, and so he had let them to their filth. He was kind of regretting that decision now that his mom was in the vicinity.

It'd be a vast understatement to say that Derek is surprised by his mom's visit, she usually calls ahead and she almost never visits during her office hours. Something ugly coils in the pit of Derek's stomach and he desperately tries to figure out _why_ his mom is here.

The sensation cools his internal organs as his mind vaults with the possibilities; his skin shimmers with almost undetectable anticipatory tremors. 

"You think too much, sweetie," Talia says, from where she's standing at the door watching him, her dark locks tucked delicately behind her ears and a fond expression on her face.

Derek smiles and is about to stand to greet her when she hurries to add, "No, no, no. Don't get up," before she closes the door behind her and walks in, her [embellished leather stilettos](http://www.stylebop.com/product_details.php?id=444071&campaign=affiliate/linkshare/usa/&utm_source=affiliate&utm_medium=linkshare&utm_campaign=adsus&siteID=gtOcLD22Xas-W1eG_Vzd40cVVEzROgAZKQ) clicking on the dark hardwood floor of Derek's study. Despite the panicked thoughts swirling around in his mind, Derek really _is_ glad to see her. 

"Mom," he greets warmly, kissing her upturned cheek. "What are you doing here?" 

"I've come to see you," Talia says, neatly crossing her ankles as she sits on one of the two high-backed chairs in front of his desk. "I miss you. _Both_ of you." 

"Yeah," Derek sighs, running a haggard hand over his hair. "I've just been really busy, y'know?" 

Talia nods sagely for a few moments before she regards her son, "When are you planning to go back to work?" 

Derek gestures to the piles of files littering his desk table, "I _am_ working." 

"I mean at the office, Derek." 

"No, I mean-. I'm going to be working from home now."

Talia laughs a little, throaty and amused, and Derek can't quite soothe the sting of mockery that the sound leaves on his skin. 

"You can't run a financial company from home, Derek," she says.

His eyebrows furrow, he feels the same stirrings of defiance from his adolescence and he counters, "Watch me." 

Talia tips her chin forward, as if she's about to pitch forth an argument or deliver a rebuke but Derek gets there first. 

"It's economically and financially viable," he says. "It'll increase productive hours, save money and oil by reducing the commute, _and_ I'll be able to keep an eye on Isaac." 

Talia looks at him thoughtfully, her hands dangling in sophisticated leisure over the arms of the chair she occupies. 

"You've really thought about this, haven't you?"

"It's my job to work out the variables, mom," he says, not at all sorry for the trace of irritation lacing his words. 

"I know, honey," she smiles, she pauses and then: "You're just like your father you know that? _Stubborn_ as a mule and I’ll wager that there’s nothing that I can say to change your mind about it.”

Derek shakes his head, smiling despite himself, “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“Why, I came to see you.”

Derek closes the file in front of him, the prospective résumés of people he’s hoping to employ, and he pushes the whole pile to the side. He clasps his hands on the table in front of him and looks at his mother. 

"It's in the middle of a work day, mom.”

"I was worried, Derek, what with Isaac's disappearance and …” she pauses delicately, her eyes squinting as she searches for the right word before she settles on, “Your _reaction_ to the whole dreaded thing.”  

Derek's eyebrows furrow in confusion because his parents have already _seen_ Isaac, the night of the disappearance in fact, and they've had several telephone calls since then. Derek doesn't fully understand why his mom is cutting her office hours early to come and check on them when it was more the norm for her to be practically conjoined with her firm. 

Talia sighs, a soft huff of breath, dark green eyes wandering to focus on the lone ‘Welcome Home’ poster that survived Wolf’s teeth hanging haphazardly beside Derek's Ridley Scott poster, and her lips purse slightly. "It's the talk of the town." 

Disappointment flares inside of Derek - the jagged edges of it fluttering against the inside of his skin, and his face clears in a understanding.

 _Damage control_. Of course.

His mom hasn't left work to come visit him, he _is_ the work.

Clearly, she doesn’t think that Derek's panic attack is very good publicity for her business and in a small town like Beacon Hills, little whispers spread like wildfire. 

"The town needs to find a new talk," Derek snaps, his voice is thin and all of a sudden it feels like the snug collar of his black sweater is cutting off his air supply, like his diaphragm has given up completely. "It's none of their business."

Talia's eyes snap to her son in the wake of his voice, and her impenetrable mask of professionalism crumbles. She looks sad and regretful as she gazes upon her son’s face.

"No, sweetheart," she says, placing her cool hands over Derek's. "I didn't mean it like that." 

Except that she did, and they both know it.

Derek presses his lips together and slides his hands from under his mom's, leaning back in his leather chair. He needs space from his mom right now and he doesn’t even know how she has the audacity to look hurt.

Derek and his mom have always had a tumultuous relationship. They've always teetered on the edges of antagonism, because as much as Talia says that Derek's a lot like his father, he also inherited a great deal of his mom’s opinionated traits - and that has never really boded well for the both of them.

His throat clicks even as he tries to speak, he can feel the weighty gaze of his mom on him and it’s like he's been asleep for days. He’s sluggish and disorientated, with the vestiges of tired clumsiness clinging to him like a second skin. 

"It's not like I can do anything about it now," Derek continues, "and Isaac is feeling a whole lot better now, not that _the_ _town_ asking. He's settled in okay, you saw him with Stiles." 

“Ah, yes,” Talia says and her mouth is in that familiar disapproving tight line. “Stiles.”

Derek heaves a huge sigh at her tone; he presses the heels of his hand to his eyes and somehow sinks even further into his leather seat.

"Oh my _God_ ," Derek groans; he can't actually believe that she's found another thing to complain about. "Mom-"

"Now, sweetheart, listen to me," Talia says, and Derek quietens. It astounds Derek how his mom always manages to find faults in whatever he does. "I’m sure that Stiles is a _fantastic_ person, but don't you think it's time for you to hire a professional babysitter. I have some wonderful contacts-"

"I don't need a professional babysitter," Derek sighs in interruption. "I have Stiles, who Isaac is used to by now."

"You _are_ aware of how just fast he's gone through jobs?" Talia comments. 

Derek levels his mom with a flat, unimpressed look, “You’re resorting to petty rumours now?”

" _Okay_ ," she says offering up her palms in pacification. "I'm just trying to help, but I understand. You're an adult."

"Except that you don't actually _treat_ me like an adult." 

Talia's expression turns stern in the blink of an eye, "Watch your tone, Derek." 

He feels like he's regressed by fifteen years when he mumbles his apology mere seconds later, but then the stern look is gone and a small, rueful smile flickers across his mom's face. 

"I'm sorry, sweetie," she sighs. "I didn't mean to make you feel inadequate. You know how I am." 

And the truth is that Derek does know. His mom's confrontational disposition and the stark bluntness of her words is what makes her a fantastic lawyer, but it's also why the responsibility for all things pep and puberty talk were relegated to their father as they grew up. 

"I know, mom," Derek says as she rises and presses a kiss to his cheek.

Talia is brash and often times works with less tact than is preferable when dealing with her family. Derek knows that she means well, but it doesn't eradicate the lingering mess of disappointment and hurt. His mom's harsh words have never been that easily soothed or forgotten and Derek highly doubts that they ever will.

She’s about to open the door when she turns back to her son, “You say that Stiles and Isaac get along well?”

That hasn’t always been the case, although the antipathy from Isaac to Stiles is slowly thawing out, but his mother certainly has no need to know that. So Derek smiles at her.

“Like a house on fire.”

-  

[I want you, just exactly how I used to.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5JELoEQHLDI&list=PLgnxrTrD23zQLT9ILLqmwjuXZFWlp1MSr)

-

Derek is mindlessly twirling a pen in his hand, about an hour after his mom has finally gone back to her office, when he looks up to find Stiles leaning against the door jamb.

"Isaac's down for the count," he says, smiling a little. "As is Wolf."

Derek nods in acknowledgement, the visit from his mom still weighing heavily on his mind. 

"Are you okay, Derek?" Stiles continues softly. "Only, I've walked past your door three times in the last half hour and I don't think you've actually moved from your position once." 

"I'm good," Derek sighs, and he feels mildly guilty for the worried way in which Stiles incessantly gnaws on his bottom lip. "I’m just thinking."

Stiles looks over his shoulder, before turning back to Derek with another small, hesitant smile on his face. "Hey, Derek?" 

Derek lifts his eyebrows in question, “Stiles?”

“Would you mind if I sat in here for a little bit you’re working?" Stiles says. "It’s just that it’s quiet and lonely out here. And I don't really like the ... _quiet_.”

Stiles lets his sentence dither off into the nether as he stands awkwardly in the doorway.

Things have been strained between them ever since the night of Isaac’s disappearance, the night of their kiss; the kiss that has been a constant presence in the back of Derek’s mind, burning a slow heat in the pit of his stomach that steadily grows and grows as the days tick by. It’s a heat that sears through his memories, that makes almost everything else seem inconsequential.

The moments in which Derek and Stiles have had to interact, without Isaac’s diffusing presence, since then have been stilted and strained. Derek wishes for nothing more than to be able to revert back to their earlier, familiar camaraderie.

“If you make any noise,” Derek begins, promptly distracted by the blinding brilliance of Stiles’ answering grin. “If you make the _slightest_ noise, Stiles, I’m kicking you out; of the _apartment_.”

But Stiles is already retreating back into the kitchen and he comes back armed with his backpack and a disarming smile. He sits clumsily on one of Derek’s chairs and swings his long legs over the upholstered arm, he fidgets in the seat until he can find a comfortable balance then he twists his upper body to reach into his bag.

Stiles roots around the depths of his bag for a minute or two, and Derek doesn’t actually understand why he doesn’t just lift the bag up instead of trying to reach into it from his position. Derek's about to suggest that very idea to Stiles when the other man lets out a cry of victory and pulls out a battered copy of _The Odyssey_ , which is when, of course, everything in his bag falls onto the ground in a disgraceful clutter.

Stiles doesn’t even seem to bat an eyelid at the mess though, he just settles back into the chair with an artful writhe of his hips. He opens his book, and a scrap piece of paper, serving as a place keeper, falls out to rest against his stomach. Stiles goes straight into reading his novel, his honey coloured eyes flickering quickly on the page as he tries to find his spot before he sighs into silence.

He doesn’t even look at Derek, who's steadfastly watching Stiles with a begrudging sort of awe, his pen poised over the statistics sheet he had begun to proof.

The comfortable mist of silence spreads over them for just over fifteen minutes and Derek is more than surprised. Firstly, because he's completely able to actually _do_ some work, he usually prefers isolation from people and from everything in order to make a significant dent in his work.

Secondly because Stiles is quiet. Not just because he isn’t speaking, Derek knows that even though Stiles likes to ramble on about insignificancies he can be silent.

No, the quiet that Derek means is the absolute paralysis of Stiles, he’s completely entranced by the world of Odysseus and his men so much so that even the usual buzz of energy vibrating within him is still and calm.

Derek’s life lately has been characterised by silence, he's noticed. As if the night he found Kate about to hurt Isaac again quietened the cacophony of sound within his mind. As if the guilt stemming from that, and so many other things, bad choices and even worse actions in Derek’s life, charges his thoughts into such an overdrive that he now seeks refuge in the silence.

But it comes as no surprise to Derek when Stiles finally shatters the careful silence around them.

“You’re a mathematician,” Stiles murmurs, and it really says something that that's not the weirdest non-sequitur to arise from Stiles’ lips. Derek just figures that he’s thinking aloud again - his mind completing a thousand different complex connections at a rate for which neither Derek nor Stiles’ mouth can ever hope to catch up with.

“Yes, I am,” Derek says, not even bothering to look up from his sheet. He manages to sound only a _little_ sardonic when he says: “Well done, Stiles.”

He can hear Stiles shift on the chair and then he says, “No, I mean you’re a _mathematician_. You do math.”

Derek looks up then and he sees Stiles’ face lit up by a burgeoning realisation, while Derek is as lost as ever. “That’s generally what mathematicians do.”

Stiles rolls his eyes as if Derek is the one being vague and obtuse.

“Everyone in your family is a lawyer. Even Boyd," Stiles says. " _Boyd’s_  a lawyer.”

“My dad isn’t a lawyer, he’s a history teacher, and neither is Erica.”

Stiles looks like he is about to launch into whichever conversation he'd been planning on leading this to when he gets distracted by Derek’s words. “Your dad teaches history? But your mom is a super highflying lawyer.”

“So you’re saying that a highflying lawyer can’t be with a history teacher?” Derek says, and smirks a little at the dull look Stiles throws him, then he shrugs. “I don’t know, Stiles. They met in college and then they got married. It's simple.”

Stiles nods, his book lying forgotten by his elbow on the arm of the chair as he sinks his chin into the palm of his hand. “No, I get it. Sometimes there are things that you wouldn’t think would be a good combination and it ends up turning out to be a perfect combination; two people together that nobody ever thought would be together.”

“Yeah,” Derek says. “That’s nice. _Romantic_.” And he only just manages to not burst into raucous laughter when Stiles tells him to ‘ _shut up_ _’_ , even as the blush that rises colours his cheeks.

“So why math?” Stiles asks later with his head and his arm hanging over the arm of the chair. Derek can feel Stiles’ attention shift to him even though he’s trying to concentrate on the work in front of him.

“Math is ... it's simple,” Derek explains. “There are set questions and answers. It’s standardised; order in chaos and all that. It's a nice balance, and there’s always some excitement in finance, so I like it.”

Derek looks up when there is a prolonged silence from Stiles, Stiles who is watching Derek with a goofy smile plastered all over his face. “You’re a gambler.”

“I don’t gamble, Stiles,” Derek sighs. “I calculate.”

“You do! You gamble!” Stiles laughs and then, almost instantly, he sobers and levels Derek with a serious disposition. “Can you help me win the lottery?”

Derek throws his pen at Stiles’ head and shakes his head ruefully as the satin tones of Stiles’ laugh echo around the room.

-

Stiles and Derek fall almost seamlessly into this new routine of theirs, characterised by harmony and camaraderie. And it's such an easy change, such an ease in comfort to be around Stiles again that it takes Derek a few moments to gather his wits about him a few days later.

"I'm glad you're not mad at me anymore," Stiles says softly from his perch on the guest chair.

"Why would I be mad at you?" Derek mutters, he spares a second to look at Stiles' kind eyes and his gentle smile, and he feels a rush of affection run over his skin. 

Their rekindled friendship is not something Derek is taking for granted, he cherishes every smile, every shared joke, and every roll of eyes. He knows that his feelings run deeper than that though - like a river creek that burrows deep beneath the earth. 

Derek's gaze lingers on Stiles' mouth, his hands, and the hollow of his throat.

The inordinate amount of times he catches himself staring at the other man, every single time Stiles' features flash across Derek's mind's eye when he finally wraps a hand around himself under the steaming streams of water, Derek feels the pressure to have Stiles build low in his gut.

He can feel that need for Stiles in his bones, the slow burn of it inching across his skin.

Stiles' proximity to Derek is therefore tantalising to say the least, but Derek always was good at keeping what he wants at a distance.

And yet, Derek sits in his office and he realises that Stiles is being more quiet than usual, with a rush of red heat flaring his cheeks.

He's sitting upright on the chair for once, with his backpack sprawled on his lap and even on the opposite side of the desk, Derek can tell that Stiles isn't actually reading his novel but rather staring blankly at the page. 

"Stiles?" Derek asks, eyebrows raised high. "Are you okay?" 

Stiles jolts out of his reverie, the hazy mist over his eyes clears and he quickly mumbles, "Yeah, I'm fine."

Derek would have dismissed it and gone back to the file in front of him had it not been for the way that Stiles shifts his legs, almost imperceptibly. Derek's eyes follow the movement though and he looks to where the backpack is positioned before his eyes flitter back to Stiles' face.

The heat in Stiles' cheeks deepens with a resurgent blush and he looks away. 

"It's a normal physiological reaction," Stiles grumbles to himself, teeth gritted tight. "Who needs to wear pants that tight anyway?"

Derek eyes Stiles' light grey sweatpants in confusion before he looks down to [his own outfit](http://www.thesartorialist.com/photos/on-the-street-brown-blue-florence/).

"Were you fantasising about me?" Derek asks slyly, and then he immediately balks, because that had come out _completely_ unbidden. 

Stiles swings his head to Derek and he puffs his chest in wounded pride, "You look really good okay? With the blue shirt and the brown suit and the-," Stiles' voice trails off as he stares at the slither of chest and the smattering of dark hair undeneath Derek's azure coloured shirt before he shakes his head and looks away.

Derek's eyes zone in on Stiles lap with a heated intensity that he hasn't felt in a long time, but he merely smirks and goes back to his work, trying desperately not to focus on the fact that Stiles slinks out of the room not five minutes later.

It gets harder and harder to forget about Stiles' reaction to him as time goes by. Derek tries to fill his days with work and family and friends - but  his mind _still_ fixates on the deep rose colour of Stiles' blush and the way it had spread down his neck.

So, two weeks later, when Derek and Stiles walk into the study from the kitchen, both Isaac and Wolf completely passed out in slumber in their room, Derek finds himself crowding Stiles against the closed wooden door. Whatever Stiles had been saying evaporates on the tip of his tongue as he takes in Derek's proximity. 

They stare at each other for a long time, each seeking permission and acceptance in the other's eyes. When Derek presses his lips to Stiles' he _understands_. He's missed this - the closeness of Stiles, his heat, his breath ghosting over his lips.

They've only kissed once, but Derek will be damned if it wasn't one of the best kisses he's ever had, the mere thought of it has goosebumps firing up his skin.

Stiles’ lips are warm and familiar, he tastes of cold coca-cola and Derek can’t get enough of him.

Stiles opens his mouth in a low moan when Derek presses him into the door, and his hands slowly come up to tangle in Derek’s hair, to push them closer, tighter together.  

Derek kisses him until they’re both gasping for breath, sweeping his tongue in a slow weave alongside Stiles’ in the heat of his mouth.

The _sound_ that Stiles makes, the surprised hitch of breath, as Derek slides his mouth from Stiles’ bottom lip to capture his top lip in a small bite, has a thousand butterfly wings hammering against Derek’s ribcage. He runs his teeth along the ridges of Stiles’ jaw and his moan, low and stretched as Derek sinks his teeth into the divot of skin beneath his jaw-hinge, is nothing short of addictive.

They kiss and bite at each other as Derek moves them towards his desk, pushing Stiles against the wood, they break apart for just one second as Derek rips Stiles’ shirt over his head and Stiles fumbles to unbutton Derek’s. They press their erections together, the friction gained through the clothing being almost unbearable, and they grind together in tight circles composed more of need rather than finesse.

Stiles slams one of his palms on the wooden top of the desk, his other arm curls around the back of Derek’s flushed neck. He throws his head back and lifts himself from the desk a little, wrapping his legs around Derek to roll his hips against him in hard, undulating waves.

Derek damn near comes right there and then; watching him, the slack red of his mouth, the gasps of breath running down his throat, the rasping hums bursting from his lips and he thinks that Stiles is perfect just like this.

He relinquishes one of his hands from their firm grip on Stiles’ hips and he skims that palm over Stiles' fair skin, shimmering in the light of the sun, before he runs the wide expanse of his palm over a pink nipple - just to feel Stiles buck up against him again and again.

Stiles pulls on Derek’s neck to kiss him again, deep and sating, as his hips slow to a stop and Derek lowers him gently back on to the desk. They just gaze at each other, mingling in the breaths shared between them. Derek marvels at how he can make Stiles feel this way, make him look so lascivious; deep flush on his flaxen skin and mischievous glint to his eye. 

He skirts his long, deft fingers over Derek’s covered cock, unbuttoning his trousers. Derek shivers when the cotton fabric of his trousers slide against the silk of his boxers. He chases Stiles’ lips with his own and Stiles laughs against his mouth, loud and bright, kissing him firmly once before he pulls out Derek’s cock.

He runs his fingers up the thick vein that swells along the side of his cock, and he massages the underside of the flared head with his thumb in maddening, soft strokes that make Derek’s eyes roll back in his head.

The way that they kiss now creates a whirlpool of lust deep in Derek’s belly, and it’s a feeling that Derek wants to bottle up and keep forever. He watches with wide eyes, when Stiles gets out his own cock and drags his fist up and down his length, unhurried pulls that hypnotise Derek instantly.

Lustful fervour fires through Derek as Stiles presses their cocks together, Derek doesn’t even mind that the only moisture they have to help them along is Stiles’ spit-slicked hand and the copious amounts of pre-come beading at the top of their cocks because it’s all so worth it for the husky gulp of air Stiles inhales when Derek also wraps his hand around them.

They work in tandem, hips rotating as their lengths brush and catch along each other, and Derek shivers and kisses Stiles like nothing else in the world exists. They both make noises of heat and want in the back of their throats, the sounds of it melting in the open air.

Derek’s orgasm rips through him like a wave cresting at high tide, his come spilling over his and Stiles’ fingers. It’s hard, fast and utterly devastating and he has to press his mouth to Stiles’ to quieten his moans, trembling through it. 

Derek watches covetously as Stiles strokes himself faster and faster, his eyes locked on to Derek’s face. Derek tightens his hand on Stiles’ cock and flicks his wrist in a quick, deft movement and he watches in amazement as Stiles comes. Stiles' eyes flutter shut and his mouth purses in a glistening red as he grits his teeth, crumbling in front of Derek with nothing more than a choke and gasp.

They come down wrapped together, the sunlight streaming in through the curtains bathing their skin in a shower of golden sunlight. They breathe together, their skin sliding against each other as the cooling sweat casts a mist over their bodies. Stiles lays his head on Derek's shoulder, running his come-tacky fingers through the dark hair on Derek’s chest.

Derek presses his lips to Stiles temple and laughs ruefully, the rush of air making Stiles shiver against him.

“Fuck, Stiles,” he says. “We’re so screwed.” 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aha! And so the smut begins. 
> 
> As you guys are probably aware, I am not a dude. I am a seventeen year old girl, so I am probably doing a huge injustice to the gay sex world, but I tried anyway haha :) 
> 
> Also, do you know how hard it is to write smut when your parents are Catholics?  
> 'Till next Sunday!


	11. Pull me Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So another week, another chapter eh? This week's song is the song that inspired this whole fic to begin with! 
> 
> Who saw Teen Wolf last week? Omg. First, how shitty was the CGI in the first five minutes? Omg! But it didn't matter because Daniel Sharman's gorgeous face was all up in that! And the girl was awesome no? I wanna know more about her and I think I'm in love with Kali. Also, Derek Hale. Those jeans. That is all.  
> This chapter contains allusions to domestic abuse so be warned. Also, I think I went a little overboard with the Italics but whatevs. :)  
> 

[ _We could be the kings of the moonlight, two young lovers and when the mood’s right you’ll hear me say I want you._ ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FEvXzSXUEao&list=PLgnxrTrD23zQLT9ILLqmwjuXZFWlp1MSr&index=14)

_-_

Derek can be a colossal idiot sometimes, he knows that, he's _lived_ through it, but this has got to be one of the stupidest things he's ever done. Ever.

He feels so unbelievably gauche and he doesn’t have the slightest idea as to what proper etiquette is for their particular situation. It's harrowing how he can barely even look at Stiles without feeling waves of culpability descend on him.

But then Stiles looks up at Derek, from where he reclines against the cool tiles beside the bathtub, he opens his arms wide and quirks his fingers and Derek all but falls in his embrace - relaxing instantly into the warmth radiated by the feel of Stiles' sumptuous skin against his. 

They spend long minutes just like this, close and warm together. He’s enveloped within Stiles' arms as they sprawl on the floor of the bathroom against the wall.

They haven't spoken since they untangled themselves back in Derek's study and headed towards the bathroom, not even in the consequent minutes in which Derek rooted around in the cabinet under the sink for a hand cloth, before giving up completely and just using ordinary bath towels for the cleanup instead. 

Now, Derek drops his head against Stiles' shoulder and closes his eyes in guilty bliss. Stiles peppers feather-light kisses along his shoulder and the exposed line of his throat. They're barely even kisses really. Just soft, almost lazy brushes of sweet lips and the delicate sweeping of lashes against Derek's skin. 

Stiles tightens his arms where they're wrapped around Derek's stomach, fingertips digging into the dips of his waist as he tries bring them closer. 

Derek feels the tension curling inside of Stiles, he feels the hard breaths against his neck and he can almost hear Stiles' mind working. 

Finally, Stiles sighs heavily and he says, "I broke up with Noah."

Derek's reaction is instantaneous. He tenses and moves to get up even as Stiles holds on tighter, hides his face in Derek's neck, closes his eyes. Stiles' voice is soft and quiet and yet it shatters through the silence, like raindrops breaking the surface of the ocean. 

"I- it was few days after we, after we kissed," he says, and Derek can feel him gulp down the ball of tension in his throat so Derek moves then, breaking out of the longing grip of Stiles' arms, so that he can turn and regard him. 

When he sees Stiles' downcast eyes and the corners of his mouth pulling down, he almost regrets moving away. 

"Why didn't you tell me?" Derek says first, and he inwardly winces at his own lack of tact, at his utter selfishness but Stiles merely shrugs. 

"I needed space," he says, making a strained sort of hum in the back of his throat as if it's taking all of his inborn determination and control not to cry. "I wanted some time for it to sink in, y'know?" 

Derek looks at Stiles, he nods and he feels an empathetic hurt blooming in the centre of his chest in commiseration with him.

Stiles' eyes have misted over and his lips tremble in the hard line he has pressed them into, when he speaks again his voice shakes and catches and he wraps his arms around himself. "I was hurting."

Derek rests his back against the tub, watches Stiles as the hurt and anger broil in the expression of his eyes, how the embarrassment manifests in the way that his teeth sink savagely into the fragile skin of his lips. 

Derek has no idea how to comfort Stiles, he's never been good at being able to soothe people, and he’s never really learned the particular nature of speech that seems to come so easily for others. He's good at listening though, and he thinks that that might be best for Stiles right now, an outlet to unleash all of this pain. 

Stiles doesn't look at Derek as he begins to speak again, instead he resolutely fixes his gaze on a point somewhere beyond Derek's presence.

"We had an argument again, and he said some _awful_ things to me," Stiles sniffs, a crystal clear teardrop falling from his eyes, catching on an eyelash for a single moment before it drops and drops - following a curved trajectory to the dip at the side of his mouth. "I mean, we always argue and we’ve always said some terrible things to each other but-." 

Stiles’ tongue flits out to lick away the teardrop and Derek has the most insane urge to kiss him, to hold his face and kiss away his anguish. 

"I just couldn't take it anymore," Stiles says and his eyes flicker back to Derek's, the edges of his golden irises fading out into the faint red tinge from his tears. "It wasn't for you," Stiles tells him, determination lining his voice. "I mean, part of it was probably _because_ of you, but I didn't do it _for_ you." 

Derek nods, he understands.

They lapse into silence then, the sound of their breaths being the only recurrent noise. 

"What did he say to you?" Derek finally asks, he watches Stiles' gaze skitter to his and he sees the memories resurge in his eyes. Stiles presses his lips together, he trembles and tears track down his flushed cheeks but he shakes his head. 

Derek gives in to the crushing need to touch Stiles by wrapping a hand around his wrist and pulling the other man to him, curling around him. 

Stiles presses his nose into the soft skin of Derek's neck as he hiccoughs jagged breaths of air. The cool temperature of his tears contrasting harshly against the heat of his reddened cheeks on Derek's skin as Derek holds him. 

"They're not things you say to the people you care about," Stiles admits between one shaky breath and the next, trembling in Derek's arms. "And the kicker is that through it all, all I could think was, _‘Derek would never say this to me,’_ and I just couldn't anymore, Derek. It was too much." 

Derek's heart beat stutters in his chest at the way his name falls ever so naturally from the other man’s lips and he presses a kiss to Stiles' hair. "I'm sorry, Stiles. I'm so sorry."

“It’s not your fault,” Stiles refutes, taking a deep, calming breath before he places his shaking fist on the flat of Derek's stomach and slowly uncurls his fingertips, sending trails of heated electricity skittering across Derek’s skin.

Stillness then descends once again, stretching out over them like a cascade of never ending worry. Derek counts the time in the steady breaths of Stiles pressed up close to him, his head tucked beneath Derek’s jaw and their legs tangled together like they belong.

Derek can’t help but feel that it is kind of his fault, that with the lingering gazes and the soft touches, he'd sped up Stiles’ hurt. It was like Stiles’ heart was breaking, slowly, gradually; each renewed instance between he and Noah creating a crack, fizzle and splinter of inevitability on the surface of their love.

Derek knows what that feels like.

He knows what it feels like to wonder if each day is going to be the last; the day in which his world is going to crumble around him in lamentations and sorrowful pleading.

Despite everything though, Derek never really thought that that day would come for he and Kate; and when it did it was nothing like he'd ever imagined. Instead of the end of their love, it was the beginning of their hatred.

He presses his lips to Stiles’ temple, tastes the last remaining trace of sweat and of them, he feels Stiles’ frantic pulse beating its familiar rhythm and he sighs, “I’m sorry anyway.”

-

Derek doesn’t know what to call this thing between them. They’re the same as ever, and really that should be a telling thing, but there’s an undercurrent of something humming precariously between them. Something new and unexplored, and Derek feels like he’s on a tightrope thirty feet high but he doesn’t quite remember if he strapped on a safety harness beforehand.

It’s exhilarating in the quietest of ways, it’s the soft brush of Stiles’ fingertips against the skin of Derek’s palm, it’s the hidden smiles reserved only for one another, and it's the absolute comfort in company.

It terrifies Derek, the ease of which they fall into themselves. 

It makes Derek’s head spin and his heart beat an irregular thud, Derek likes order and he likes knowledge. He likes to know precisely what's going on and where he stands, and this thing with Stiles is tipping his whole world balance askew in a way that isn’t particularly all bad.

Stiles himself is the complete binary opposite of Derek. He likes mess and noise and not denying himself the simple pleasures despite knowing that they probably aren't a good idea. But he _knows_ Derek, and that’s perhaps what's the most surprising, because in all the weeks that Stiles has been here with Derek, with Derek’s family, he’s managed to seamlessly integrate himself with them.

Derek can see it in the way that Isaac isn’t hesitant at all to smile at Stiles anymore, in the way that Stiles tuts exasperatedly when Wolf dares to try to chew his cast, and in the way that Stiles looks torn between loving sympathy and mocking laughter when he sternly places the dreaded cone of shame on the pup.

Stiles is so invariably part of Derek’s life that it almost feels alien for him not to be there. They haven't initiated anything since that day in the office.

Quick, chaste kisses pressed to the corners of Derek's mouth are incredibly satisfying and _undeniably_ _infuriating_ because Derek knows what it is like to have _all_ of Stiles.

Still, they keep with their day and their methods and they sit in hallowed silence together in Derek’s office for hours at a time basking in their togetherness whilst Isaac and Wolf sleep.

Too many days later, they’re sitting in the office again and Derek is trying his damn hardest not to let his thoughts drift to how Stiles looked writhing on the surface of the desk, or to the line of his neck as he gulped air after air between his ruby-coloured lips, or even to the sound of his voice as he came.

Evidently, he doesn’t actually succeed because when he blinks back into focus it's to the self-righteous, amused smirk playing on Stiles’ expression. 

“Shut up,” Derek says and turns back to his laptop to furiously jab his fingers into the sleek keys on the board, typing an e-mail to his office. He can feel the rising blush colouring his cheeks. 

Stiles merely laughs, throwing his hair back as the low chuckles that rasp his throat shake his body. 

Derek wonders how long he was staring at Stiles. 

"Seven minutes," Stiles says, between gasping breaths, like he's reading Derek's mind and then he dissolves into laughs once again. "You must have blinked like, twice, Derek, twice!" 

Later, much later, when Stiles’ hysteria dies down into a self-indulgent smile and he reads in quiet contemplation, a sight that makes Derek's heart ache, Derek asks, "That any good?" 

Stiles looks up to him then, his face shrouded in confusion, mouth hanging open as he peers curiously at Derek, "Is what any good?" 

Derek nods towards the book nestled within Stiles' hands, with the weathered façade of it and the lines of white creases running down the spine. 

"Oh. Yeah, really good. Odysseus is kind of a douchebag though, it has to be said." 

Derek frowns, "Isn't he the hero of the book?"

Stiles sighs, looking down as his fingers lightly trace the indentations that the printed words make on the page. "Still a douchebag, Derek." 

Derek smiles, "You seem to have read it a lot."  

Stiles levels him with an unimpressed look, "No, I read like a normal person." 

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Stiles drops his book flat open on his chest and gestures around the room with wide circulating arms. "This. Everything. You're like the neatest person I know. It's weird. I can't even tell which books you've read!" 

Derek looks towards the deep cherry oak bookcase by the wall on his left, he doesn't see anything out of the ordinary in his books, they're neat and clean on the row beneath his stacked vinyl records, orderly yes, but that doesn't mean he hasn't _read_ them. Derek likes to be careful with the things he cares about. 

"They're tidy," Derek says, affronted. "I like tidiness. You know that." 

Stiles rolls his eyes affably, "Yeah, I know."

"I can't help that you're chaos personified," Derek grumbles. 

"I resent that. Besides, my book only looks like this," he gestures to the haphazard concoction of highlighter marks and notes scribbled in black ink, "Because I bought it when I was at college." 

The confession brings Derek up short, and it is absolutely a confession.

Derek can tell in the way that Stiles tries to sound nonchalant and casual about mentioning it, and distantly Derek is beyond pleased that Stiles is even comfortable enough with him to share a part of his life. 

"You went to college?" Derek asks as he abandons his laptop completely, focusing his attention on Stiles. 

Stiles hums in acknowledgement.

"Yeah. I may seem it, but I'm not a complete and utter failure," he laughs a little. "I read English. Stanford boy, right here."

"Why aren't you there right now?" 

Stiles bites his lower lips, worries the cover of his book before his gaze skitters to Derek's. He takes a breath and holds it, tensing as if bracing himself for a verbal lashing, "I dropped out end of second year." 

"You didn't like it?" Derek says and he sees mild surprise etch across Stiles' expression, he has a feeling that that's not the usual response Stiles receives after telling people he dropped out of Stanford, of all places. 

"No, I'm very [Blakeian](http://www.poetryloverspage.com/poets/blake/schoolboy.html) in that respect; against the social restrictions of school and society!" Stiles shakes his fist in mock fury before he drops the hand entirely and grins, "I'd much rather frolic in the pastoral fields with some sheep, y'know?" 

"How'd your dad take it?" Derek asks, though he has the feeling that he knows the answer anyway. 

"You know, surprisingly, not very well," Stiles says drily. "He shouted at me for a couple hundred hours but then he understood, after a few stern words from Freda.That's kind of when I fell in love with her actually. Well, that and the time she made me cookies for like an entire month." 

"I know what you mean." 

"Freda?" 

Derek rolls his eyes, chucks a waylaying pencil at Stiles. "No, idiot. I mean, I understand. My mom wanted me to be a lawyer. Wasn't too happy when I decided to go a different direction." 

Stiles waggles his eyebrows, "Because she thought there was only _one direction_?" 

Derek glares at the smile peeking through Stiles' expression. "Shut up. My dad kind of made it better for me, anyway."

"What did he say?" 

Derek smiles as he remembers the day that his dad had cornered Derek in his room, wearing one of his customary woollen jumpers, "He said that I should do whatever the hell I wanted, screw what everybody else thought, because at the end of the day, I was the one who had to live with my decisions."

Then his father had casually patted Derek on the head and left to get on with his day, like he hadn't just dramatically changed his son's _entire_ life. 

"Sage advice," Stiles nods.

"Yeah. I mean it was a bit touch and go between my parents for a while there, so I couldn't help thinking that it was my fault." 

Stiles nods, his fingers beating a nervous, incessant pattern on the cover of his book.

"Yeah. I know. Noah wasn't too happy with me quitting school either," Stiles sighs and rubs the pads of his fingers on his forehead. "That's when it started, I think. The arguments and the constant tension; that and every time I lost a job. Something that has happened a lot in the past year and a half, believe me." 

Stiles bites the nail of his thumb and turns his face partway away from Derek, effectively ending the conversation. He looks worried, his eyes moving to and fro as he tries to keep up with the thoughts inside his head. Derek watches him for a full minute but when it becomes clear that Stiles will not be re-entering the conversation, he goes back to his own work.

Twenty minutes later, the words on the laptop screen look woozy and jarring in his mind. Derek makes a low sound of discomfort in his throat and he squints his eyes against the harsh glare of the monitor, opening the first drawer beneath his desk. 

"You okay?" Stiles asks. 

"Just a headache." 

Derek pops two headache pills before he pulls out his reading glasses case. He hates the wearing the dreaded thing but he has to in order to not feel like his head is being split open by an overeager axe-wielding maniac. 

The glasses, a pair of [Georgio Armani round lenses](http://www.readingglasses.com/armani-786-bifocal/?variantid=81590), make him feel utterly ridiculous. He slips them on and scrunches his nose in distaste. 

A flash of movement in his periphery makes him turn his head and he finds Stiles holding his phone with a grin. 

"Delete it," Derek says almost immediately. 

Stiles turns his gaze from the front of his screen to Derek. "You wear _glasses_ , Derek." 

"Stiles. Delete it." 

"No, I'm going to keep it forever." 

"I'm serious."

"You look ridiculous."

"I will rip your throat out," Derek scowls. "With my teeth." 

"With your rabbit teeth?" Stiles remarks dryly. 

Derek glowers, but he blushes and curbs down on the sudden urge to cover his mouth with his hand. "Shut up."

Stiles tucks his phone into his pocket with a self-satisfied smirk, then his whole face lights up with a burgeoning idea. "Hey, do you want to have dinner tonight?" 

"It's common knowledge that I have dinner every night," Derek remarks.

"Ha! You're funny," Stiles rolls his eyes. "But seriously, I can make dinner for the three of us tonight and then maybe I can, uh, stay over?" 

Derek sees the nervous flush rising on Stiles' cheek, he feels a wave of fondness at the sight and he nods, smiling tentatively, "Sure, that'd be great." 

Stiles jumps up from his seat, dumping his book on the chair behind him. "Awesome, I'll just go over to the store to fetch some things and I'll swing by my apartment on the way." 

He leans over Derek's desk, one of his hands lowering Derek's laptop screen a little before he plants his palms on the wide wooden surface and kisses Derek. 

It's the first proper meeting of their lips since their sexual escapades days prior, and it feels electrifying. Stiles' lips are warm and plush and firm where they press against his. 

Stiles begins to pull back, their lips catching in the best way, but Derek's hand lifts to cup the back of Stiles' head and reel him back in. 

He can feel Stiles smile against his mouth and Derek remembers how much he's missed this. Kissing that is, kissing someone slowly, warmly with absolutely no ulterior motives, no expectations beyond the conveyance of mutual affection. 

Stiles reluctantly pulls away from the kiss with a laugh. 

"Okay, I'll see you in about two hours, three tops. Don't forget to wake Isaac up."

Derek just rolls his eyes, it's not like he's going to forget his own kid. Stiles bats a hand through air and slips out of the door saying, "You know what I mean, Derek. Don't be difficult."

He returns within thirty seconds, rushing right up to Derek's desk to press another hard kiss to his mouth, muttering _'one more for luck,'_ and _'those glasses are still ridiculous'_ against his mouth before he's dashing away for real now. 

Derek works steadily for another forty minutes, hoping to get a bit of actual work done in the absence of his son and his ... Stiles. His _whatever-Stiles-is_.

His phone rings just as he's writing an e-mail to Connor, one of his junior associates in the city, about the fiscal rates for a client's account. It's his work phone, he notes absently, as the succinct tone rings out through the room. 

"Derek Hale," he says, his hand distractedly pushing the bridge of his glasses more comfortably against his nose as his eyes fix on the graphs in front of him. 

The voice on the line is fraught and heavy, the base tones of it crackling down the phone, "Honey?" 

Derek freezes.

It feels as if the entirety of his being has been doused in liquid nitrogen, vertigo crawls up his throat and he feels helpless; utterly and completely bereft of common sense. 

"Derek? Honey?" The voice comes again, dipping into soundlessness as if travelling through a tunnel. "Are you there?" 

"Kate," Derek says. The name tumbles out of his lips in a clunky, uncoordinated mess as nerves begin to fester at his gut. 

"Oh, _thank God,_ " Kate is saying. "I thought the line had dropped." 

Derek doesn't say anything, he bites the inside of his lips and he curls his free hand into a tight fist, but he doesn't say anything. 

It's so weird, Kate sounds like _his_ Kate; the one that had been making less and less of an appearance over the years, the Kate that faded over like an old photograph. It's jarring to hear her voice after weeks and weeks of her absence.

"I'm driving," she continues, seemingly oblivious to his panic. " _I know_ , I know. You always tell me not to phone when I'm driving but I'm really late, honey, okay?"

Derek can just imagine her as if she were right in front of him, the way that she makes faces, the way that her hands lift from the steering wheel in time with her words as she chatters away into her Bluetooth.

"-and anyway, I'm really worried about you, Der. Just tell me where you are and I'll come to you. Okay?" There's a pause and in the silence Derek can hear the steady hum of Kate's car, he can hear her take a deep breath and then she's speaking in a low, contrite tone, "I'm really sorry for what happened to Isaac. How is he? I miss my baby, Derek. I miss _you_." 

That seems to snap Derek out of whichever stupor he had the unfortunate luck to fall into, he swears that his vision colours red for a split second in his absolute rage.

"You're _sorry_ , Kate?" Derek seethes, an explosion of pent up anger, hatred and consternation. "You call me up to say that you're sorry? You hurt our _son_ , you psychotic-" 

Derek cuts himself off, he can't bear to say another word and he breathes hard. The sheer _fury_ running through his veins creates a swirling pit in his very consciousness, he can hear Kate speaking down the phone, hurried assurances of _'I was drunk, honey,'_ and _'It won't happen again, I promise,'_ and _'Derek, please just listen to me'_.

But he can't, Derek physically can't stand to hear her voice for another minute, not when the rancid memories of her screaming at their son are still so fresh on his mind. 

So he hangs up on her, and with barely a second of hesitation he switches his phone off completely. 

Derek takes off his glasses, hangs his head heavily into the palms of his hands. His chest constricts with each wretched breath he takes and he closes his eyes tightly and tries to calm down, heaving great hulking gasps that shake him to his core. 

He has no idea how long he sits there, trying to quell the storm in his mind but suddenly he's crashing his way upright, tripping in his haste to get around the desk and down the hall. 

Isaac is still sound asleep, tucked safe into his bed and Wolf is on his dog-bed, curled around himself. Derek makes his way to Isaac's bed side and carefully picks up his son. Isaac grumbles himself awake, rubbing the heel of his palm into his eyes before he falls onto Derek's chest, wrapping an arm around his father's neck and blinking blearily. 

Derek presses a kiss into his curls before he bends down to lift Wolf to his chest. 

He heads to the living room and arranges the three of them on one of the armchairs; Isaac leaning sideways against his father's chest and Wolf on his lap. Despite knowing that they're all safe now and that they're okay and they're all together, Derek's heart still beats fast and scared. He curls an arm around Isaac's back, the other around Wolf, and he keeps them close.

That's how Stiles finds them a few hours later, with Derek's head tucked in close to his son's, both patting Wolf's fur as he mewls and Isaac babbles. 

Stiles' arms are laden with groceries, and he's grinning brightly. 

"Wow, you look adorable," he says but when Derek looks up at him, his smile falters and falls. "What's wrong?" 

He puts the grocery bags on the floor, plastic falling against plastic as he steps over the bags and heads towards the chair. He stops just short of them, "Derek?"

Stiles waits for a mere second in the ensuing silence before he's picking up Isaac. 

"Hey bud," he says. "Mind if I talk to your dad for a second?"

Stiles eventually manages to manoeuvre Derek and Isaac and Wolf so that Derek is stood beside him and Wolf is curled up in Isaac's lap as he sits on the chair. 

He turns on the TV to distract them before snags Derek's wrist and tugs him into the office, closing the door behind them. 

"Talk to me." 

It's a lot harder for Derek to actually bring up the courage to speak, but Stiles is surprisingly patient. He perches Derek on the desk, stands in between his legs and he waits.

"It was Kate," Derek eventually says, and he works to swallow the lump lodged in his throat even as he hears the sharp intake of breath from Stiles. "She called me on my work phone." 

Stiles hesitates for a split second before he's reaching over to grab Derek's phone and switch it on. He gently runs his hand through Derek's hair as they both watch the phone vibrate and ring with each missed call and text message.

They watch in silence, it seems to go on forever, but it eventually stops at a hundred-and-six missed calls and seventy-two messages.

Stiles sighs, "We have to tell my dad."

Derek merely nods as Stiles continues. "What did she say?" 

"That she was sorry," Derek laughs bitterly. "And that,  _apparently,_ she misses us." 

Derek snorts inelegantly and leans against Stiles' chest; fleetingly he wonders when the other man became Derek's paragon of standing hope; how without even meaning to, Derek fell head first for him despite trying his absolute hardest not to.

“Let’s go make dinner,” Stiles suggests after a long while, fingers petting Derek's hair. “Let’s not let her ruin our night, okay? She doesn’t know where you are. You’re okay.”

-

They make The Sheriff’s infamous marinated lamb for dinner with Stiles leading the pack, Derek following in his footsteps, Isaac sticking his hand into the mashed potato bowl every time he thinks Derek isn’t looking and Wolf sitting dejectedly in the corner with his shame-cone miserably whacking the floor in an intermittent beat.

“My dad used to make this all time,” Stiles says to Isaac as he’s chopping up the vegetables, “You’ll love it I’m sure.”

Derek almost manages to forget about the whole Kate debacle as they stand in the warmth of the kitchen, Stiles even manages to persuade Derek to bring out some of his vinyl records for background music, a mere lilting hum amongst the commotion they’re causing.

In the two hours it takes for their supper to cook, they sit in the living room to watch one of Isaac’s movies, Stiles and Derek on opposite sides, Wolf and Isaac nestled between them.

They end up putting two very sleepy pups to bed straight after dinner, and Derek smiles when he realises that Isaac has fallen asleep even before he's finished reading to him. He tucks his son in, makes sure that the window in his room is firmly locked, moves Wolf’s hurt paw away from the pup’s mouth and he slips out of the room.

Derek and Stiles collide into each other as soon as they’re alone, kissing and wrapping around each other as they move towards Derek’s room. They bump into the wall once or twice causing Stiles to laugh against Derek’s mouth and whisper, “We have to be quiet! _Derek_ , we have to be quiet.”

They peel each other out of their clothes as soon as they shut the door of Derek’s bedroom behind them, putting it all in a pile before they slip beneath the cool covers of the bed.

Stiles sprawls himself over Derek, kissing him and touching him and holding him, Derek feels a frisson of lust coil up his spine and he shivers, wanting to bring Stiles closer.

When Stiles moves down Derek’s body, mouth trailing wet kisses all over his chest, his mind starts to wander. He thinks about the phone call earlier, and what Stiles had said. It was entirely plausible that Kate didn’t know where they were, after all, she'd called his work phone not his personal one nor his landline. He tangles his hand in the silken strands of Stiles’ hair and he tries his damn hardest not to think about how much she could still hurt them.

But it’s so hard when he thinks about how _normal_ she had sounded on the phone, like the police wasn’t in fact looking for her, not like she’d hurt Derek and Isaac. It was if it was just another day for her _, ‘I’m really late, honey,’_ she had said, like she was just heading into work.

Stiles appears in Derek’s vision a second later, pressing a thumb to the hollow beneath Derek’s cheekbone.

“Hey,” he whispers. “Get out of your head.”

Derek murmurs his apology into his mouth as he surges up to a sitting position, Stiles nestles in his lap and cradles his head as they kiss.

Stiles curls one arm around Derek’s neck and he drops the other, long fingers trailing over the skin of Derek’s chest and sides. His hand runs over the deft cords of muscle above his ribs and then slip lower, fingers slotting neatly into the four crescent shaped scars beneath Derek's ribs - scars that Kate had left the last time they'd slept together.

It’s like a jolt of electricity firing through Derek, his mind floods with memories and images of Kate and his entire body tenses and he acts on pure instinct, flinging Stiles away from him.

Stiles lets out a cry of surprise as he gets dropped unceremoniously on the far side of the bed but there’s hardly a second of reprieve before he throws himself onto Derek.

Derek doesn't even realise he's shaking until Stiles’ arms curl round him, and the man is furiously whispering. _“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,”_ as Derek hides his face in his chest, breathing heavily as the remnant memories taint his skin, like an infectious nightmare.

Derek tries to get up and away from Stiles, get away from embarrassing himself anymore but he feels tired, a lethargy that seeps into his very bones, making him sluggish and uncoordinated.

He tries to get up but Stiles wraps his hands around his shoulders and presses him down onto the bed.

“Stiles, I have get ou– ”

“ _No_.”                             

“I have to, have to-“

“I don’t care,” Stiles whispers and he uses gentle fingers to wipe away the tears that Derek hadn’t even realised he had let out.

Stiles tucks the covers around them, lays his head beside Derek’s on the pillow and wraps a firm staying arm over his chest

The tiredness seeps into Derek like an ongoing ocean, the tiredness drifting into him in steady swelling crests. Stiles’ face is the last thing Derek sees before he sinks into sleep, lulled by the gentle caress of Stiles’ fingers in his hair.

Stiles presses a kiss to Derek’s temple just as his breath is evening out, preparing for sleep. Stiles sighs miserably and he shakes his head, whispering to himself.

“Fuck," he says. "What did she do to you, Derek?”

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. I hope you liked the chapter! :) Let me know what you think in the comments. 
> 
> Check out details of my other fics here: [My writing page](https://http://ohmycumberlord.tumblr.com/fics)


	12. I'll make a Beast of Myself but I'm a Real Hero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! How are you all?  
> Okay, well this chapter took me quite a while to write, it's really melancholy and sad.  
> There are some major triggers in this chapter, they're all contained in the first scene so you can skip that one if you want. But seriously, triggers for Sexual Assault and Non-Con elements. 
> 
> I've said it once, I'll say it again: let's all just hate Kate Argent.
> 
> Two songs this week, one is from the Scottish band Twin Atlantic and I love the song because of the Scottish accent, oh my god! 
> 
> The second song is by College and Electric Youth and it comes from the soundtrack of the film Drive with Ry Gosling which is a beaut of a film, seriously. It's super violent but it's REALLY good.
> 
> And Gos looked fantastic which is always a bonus.

[You know, you know, it's the end of our sweet universe. You know, you know, that we blame it on ourselves.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mixzboYrx0E&list=PLgnxrTrD23zQLT9ILLqmwjuXZFWlp1MSr)

-

When Derek stirs into consciousness, the first thing he notes is the warmth of somebody else around him, followed by the light of the morning it  as streams in through the glass and the sound of birds flitter in the early morning sky.

Derek instinctively knows that the body wrapped around his is that of Stiles, he recognises the familiarity of his broad shoulders pressed close to his back, the man's long legs tangled in his, and Stiles’ fingers fitted in the spaces between Derek's.

When Derek finally opens his eyes, slow and unwillingly, he blearily focuses on the alarm. The digital clock face shines a brilliant azure blue and shows that he has precisely thirty-three minutes until it goes off and he has to get up to face the day, pretending like he hadn't broken down the night before. 

He doesn't move at all though. Derek knows that today is going to be one of _those_ days.

Those days in which he can hardly stand to get out of bed, the days he has a crippling dependency on the familiar comfort of his bed and the promise of isolation from reality. 

On some level Derek recognises that his son needs him, that he needs to get up and smile at Isaac and assure him that _"Daddy's alright, pup"_ like he's had to do on so many occasions. But Derek doesn't think he's going to be to be able to do that today, not with the unmistakable, heavy presence of dread and guilt and sorrow that has pierced deep into the centre of his chest. 

He does take some comfort in the sleeping man beside him; in the way that Stiles' nose presses just behind his ear and his breath flutters against Derek's skin and how he curls around him so tightly - like by holding on tight enough, he can chase Derek's worries away. 

Derek breathes steadily, matching his heart's rhythm to the slow cadence of Stiles' breathing; like an organic symphony made solely by and for the two of them and kept in the safe comfort of Derek's bed, it swirls around them like honey - silken sweet and golden.

Derek blinks lethargically, he can still feel the drainage from yesterday chasing after the blood in his veins and his skin vibrates with the ghosts of his tremors.

He can feel the cold starchiness beneath his eyes from his dried tears and he imagines that he looks like chaos personified: with a thick, haggard stubble, gaunt cheeks and a dead blankness in his expression. 

It's not fear, Derek knows, that makes him look like this.

It hasn't been _just_ fear in a long time. It runs deeper than that, and it sears and boils. It's a thing that creeps around the borderlines of his consciousness and waits until the most perfect moment to strike and burn down his defences into ash and cinders.

It feels like he's burning inside himself, slowly, utterly trapped.

Derek loved Kate; he _still_ loves her if he's completely honest with himself. She wasn't the first person he had ever fallen in love with, but she was the one he had loved the longest.

Kate, the mother of his child, had been the one with whom he spent long nights curled in with blankets and the warmth of hot cocoa, surrounded by city lights and toiling clouds - talking about _forever_ , as if forever was something they could keep.

She was the one who knew him, knew of him, of his fears, and his hopes. She was his everything.

Derek remembers the first time Kate told him she loved him, how everything changed when she looked up at him one day and said, "I love you, Derek," smiling like it was that simple. He remembers how she'd wrapped her arms around his neck and laughed, "You've ruined me now, there'll never be anybody else." 

It changed everything then, changed how they slept together after that, how she would lean in close and press sweet, sated kisses to his mouth and whisper how they belonged. 

 _"Mine,"_ she'd say, over and over and over until he threw his head back and came so hard that entire galaxies and constellations would burst in technicolor radiance behind his eyelids. 

His last time with her was such a shock to him, something cruel and unexpected.

It makes him feel dirty and used in all the wrong ways. His skin tightens in memory of it even now, like it wants to get as far away from the recollection as it can. 

They had been in bed when she asked. Thick clouds hovered in front of the dim moonlight as she curled into his side, a hand splayed out above his heart, as it usually was, striving for the connection with Derek that had been missing for a long time. 

She had tucked her face into his chest and looked up to him with warm eyes and a slow roll of her hips against his thigh. She'd smiled when he'd said _yes_ and she had looked so elated that he was almost tempted to kiss her. 

Instead, he had pressed her into the mattress, pressed his face to her neck and buried himself in her in strong, swift strokes that had her sighing and moaning softly into the stillness of the late hour. 

Eventually she had pushed him onto his back and clambered over him, had sunk into him with her head thrown back, delight marking her face as she peeled her nightshirt off of her body, her flushed skin illuminated by the dark of the night. 

Sometime between one roll of her hips and the next she changed. He could see it in the hard glint in the eye, the firm turn of her lip and the maleficent, condescending curl of her brow as she looked down at him.

She had had ridden him tight and hard then, edging him closer and closer to the precipice of crystal lust. He hadn't even realised how her nails dug into his skin - could only watch in avid horror as she bounced above him, harsh words falling from her pretty lips.

She had called him so many _ugly_ things, words that stutter with mocking derision in his memory even now, words that whisper in his mind and that sear scars in every facet of his new life.

Derek came that night with her words ringing in his ears and her relentless heat surrounding him. It was the most horrific pleasure he had ever felt, every black word that had tumbled from her mouth in a jilted mess stung his skin like molten lava even as he was overcome by the velvet-toned friction of her sex. 

But even then she wasn't satisfied. Derek, with a heavy arm draped across his face in burgeoning shame and lethargy, had yelped in horror and sharp pain as she lifted herself off of him and gripped his softened cock in too tight a fist and pumped with reckless abandon. 

Pain bloomed crimson yellow in his mind even as Kate muttered conniptions under her breath, even as Derek pleaded for her to stop. 

She didn't listen to him at first; there was a hungry look in her eyes that overtook her senses for a while, a hunger not for him, nor for his love but rather for what she could use him for.

He had tried to bat her hands away, but his limbs weren't co-ordinating, she had sunk her nails into his skin, blood staining her fingertips, and she had licked her lips, even as he begged her to stop. 

It took a broken yell of a thing for her to stop. It had taken hot tears gathering in fat droplets in the corners of his eyes and the dullness of his gritted teeth as he said, "Kate, stop. _Katie_!" 

She'd looked up then, at her name. _Katie_. Something he'd stopped calling her the minute Derek realised that there was a dark enmity hiding beneath her skin, when her possessive nature became suffocating. 

She had snapped out of whatever trance she'd fallen into with that name, her mouth dropping out of its sneer and slotting neatly into growing horror when she had looked down at her hands. Relief had mingled with pain for Derek as she took her hands away from him, her nails scraping against him even as she recoiled in guilt. 

Derek had thrown his head back into the pillow, eyes tightly and breath heavy. He was shivering in the cool air of the room as hot, salted tear tracks warmed his face. Kate had hovered around him for a while, as he pressed his hands to his face in a feeble attempt at muffling his cries.

She didn't try to offer any kind of tactile comfort and for that he was grateful - he had long since learned to thank god for small mercies when it came to Kate.

He had eventually gotten up, forced himself up, and stumbled into the bathroom, ignoring Kate's crying whispers of, _"I'm sorry, Der, I'm so sorry."_  

He had sat on the cold plastic of the toilet lid for a long time; his fingers gripping his hair as his erection throbbed painfully, blazing a bitter red colour at the tip. He breathed shaky lungfuls of air until the physical pain had subsided and had been instead been replaced by the pain of everything else. 

Kate had come into the bathroom sometime later, as Derek used toilet paper to dab at the steady stinging trickle of blood oozing down his side. She was dressed in one of his softer, dark grey shirts - her hair falling in a tangled mess around her pallid face as she clutched the first aid kit that they kept in the kitchen to her stomach.

She had dropped to her knees next to him and lifted a hand to him but had stopped dead in her tracks when Derek froze in his ministrations, fixed his gaze somewhere on the floor, his expression fearful, hurt, betrayed and furious all at once, saying,  _"Don't touch me."_  

She had nodded and blinked back tears, looking for all the world young and innocent, as if _she_ had any right to be upset with her treatment of him.

Derek didn't know how she had the nerve. 

She had sat there, mouth trembling with unspoken apologies, her hands placed demurely in her lap as she watched him clean himself up and place soothing balm over the cuts and scratches that she had scraped across his skin. 

He had left her there, in the bathroom, and he'd grabbed a pair of boxers from their room and headed down to the living room to press his back against the cool leather and to try to breathe through his panic. 

She'd walked around him like a ghost for days, tripping over him in her haste to remain close, longing for him and looking pained whenever he had flinched away from her touch. He ignored it, ignored _her_ and eventually everything manifested into a dark mood that cast a shadow over their entire lives.

It was a full year of waking up their son because of screaming matches, of her throwing diatribes and filthy insults that tore at his soul. 

It was a year of Derek coming home to relieve the babysitter because Kate hadn't yet arrived, and of her stumbling into their bedroom in the dark hours of the morning smelling of stale cigarettes and another man's whiskey. 

Hindsight can be the most painful thing, Derek thinks, and now he wonders if that was when she started, when just hurting Derek wasn't enough that she had to resort to hurting their baby as well. 

When Derek blinks back into focus, a mere eighteen minutes have passed on the clock.

He has an inkling that the only reason that he isn't in an uncontrollable panic right now is because of the warmth of Stiles around him, the comforting feel of the coarse hair on other man's arms rubbing delicately against the hair on his own forearm as Stiles gently slides his palm over Derek's chest in wide, soothing stripes.

He hadn't even been aware that Stiles had awoken, and he wonders how deep in his own head he must have been, and how long Stiles must have been watching Derek quietly fall apart within the confines of his own memory.  

Stiles stills his hand when he realises that Derek is awake and he presses lingering kisses on the tattoo that stretches between his shoulder blades, from the tip of one inked tendril across to the middle, nuzzling there with his cheek before he hooks his chin over Derek's shoulder and breathes _good morning_ into his hair. 

Stiles doesn't seem to mind Derek's quietness, he just presses his warm skin to Derek's and breathes with him until it feels like some of the tightness around his chest loosens a little. He presses firm kisses to the line of Derek's shoulders and Derek can feel the slow, languid smile appear on Stiles' face when he finally, _finally_ , has enough energy to reply. 

Derek turns on his back and tries not to get too used to how comfortably Stiles fits in his side, with a leg thrown over Derek's and their heads tucked close together. 

The world seems to slow its tempo, matching to the slow shift of Derek and Stiles as they lie together, their shared warmth as the minutes tick by. It tethers Derek down to the real world, to the _present_ as opposed to the murky stains of his past. 

It's a balancing act, this.

He's just waiting for the world to come crashing down around him. It's not a matter of if, but _when_ , because on days like today the only thing that he can do is lash out and there are very few people in the world who can see past this side of him. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" Stiles whispers against his skin, pressing a placating kiss there to soothe the tension that slips into Derek's body. 

"No." 

He leans on an elbow above Derek, presses the pad of his thumb along Derek's jaw with a firm pressure. "Not talking about it isn't healthy, Derek." 

Derek doesn't want to talk though, he just wants to close his eyes and say goodbye to the world for a few blissful hours, just until this pressure in the centre of his chest dissipates; until he can breathe again and he doesn't taste blood and heartbreak at the back of his throat. 

Shame creeps up on him and his checks burn a blazing red. He knows that Stiles has read his file, he knows that the other man is aware of _exactly_ what happened. Derek doesn't want to talk about it, he doesn't want to remember and he wishes with all his might that he never had to live through it. 

“I just want to help, Derek. A relationship -”

“A relationship?” Derek parrots, and he can feel the need to hurt, the need to wound scratching at his throat. “Is that what we’re doing?”

The thumb on his jaw line stops, Stiles freezes above him and he stares hard at Derek, looking both hurt and vexed.

“I know you’re upset,” he says carefully. “So I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”

He gets up then, disillusioned by Derek's lacklustre mood, and Derek misses his warmth instantly. 

Derek watches his every movement as Stiles roots around Derek's drawers. He throws a pair of boxers at Derek, picks up his discarded backpack and heads to the bathroom.

He can hear Stiles move about the apartment but it’s not until an hour later that he comes back into the room with Derek's laptop, a cup of coffee and a fully dressed Isaac hovering behind his legs. 

Stiles marches towards him, grabs his upper arm and makes him sit up and hands him the mug, the laptop and his son before he saunters back out without a word. 

Isaac settles between Derek's legs and the tension in Derek’s body ebbs a little less violently.

Derek spends the rest of the morning like that, with his son tucked close. He uses the laptop for the first hour to divide his company's day tasks to his junior associates. 

He resolutely ignores his head senior associate’s increasingly urgent e-mails, characterised by capital letters, excess usage of exclamation points and a litany of threateningly astute metaphors. 

Derek merely deletes them all and leans back against the headboard, letting Isaac commandeer the internet for himself. The pressure pulsating in Derek's skin lessens throughout the day but he can't quite find the energy or the desire to actually get up. 

On the third day going, in which Derek has only really gotten up to use the bathroom before curling back in on himself in the myriad tangle of his blankets, nesting within the comfort of them, Stiles crashes into the room, making Isaac jump where he's nestled against Derek's front. 

Stiles levels a disapproving glare at Derek before he leans over the bed to grab Isaac. His son nestles comfortably on Stiles' hip, a fist curled in Stiles' flannel overshirt, and Derek wonders when they became so close and how he missed their bonding over the last couple of days. 

"We're going out," Stiles declares, maddened worry lacing his words. "You can fester in your own mess if you want, Derek, but it's a nice day so I'm taking Isaac and Wolf for a walk." 

Stiles looks at him then, like he wants Derek to say he'll come to, for Derek to reassure him that he's okay. So, Stiles waits for him to say something, to make a move to get up or _anything_ really. 

Derek just stares blankly, at a complete loss for what to do or what to say.

Stiles merely shakes his head and walks back out of the room, quietly closing the door behind him.

-

Crackled tension spears the air in the silence of the apartment for a long time after they're gone. 

It shocks Derek, the utter silence that pervades the whole place now that they've left the apartment, and he wonders if this type of loneliness is doomed to be his fate, especially if he continues to push everybody he cares about away. 

Melancholy dulls the day into greys and shadows, turning the sunshine beams into blinding rays of light.

He closes his eyes and leans back against the headboard.

He doesn't know how long he stays there, the minutes seem to run into each other, spilling seconds and hours into one ungainly mess in his mind. But he's in there far enough that he blocks out everything around him, hears nothing but the blood pumping in his veins and the shifting whir of his mind.

A voice enters his consciousness sometime later, exasperated affection curling around the feminine lilt, "You look a mess DJ."

"Don't call me DJ," Derek retorts immediately, it's an automatic response conditioned from years and years of the same argument. But then he freezes in his thoughts and his eyes fly open in surprise because there is only one person who ever calls him by his first two initials. 

True to form, Lydia Martin stands leaning against the doorjamb of Derek's bedroom, looking impeccable in a [Tuscany pink romper and grey knit jumper](http://www.thesartorialist.com/photos/on-the-street-11th-ave-new-york-2/) and her hair twisted into a delicate up-do. 

"What the hell are you doing here?" Derek asks, from where he's gaping at her from his bed. 

She cocks her head to the side, smiles, "An intervention." 

"The hell you are," Derek mutters, clutching the sheets around him in a fit of modesty. 

She rolls her eyes, sauntering into the room. Lydia sits on the bed next to him, watching him with a soft look of pity. 

"Derek," she says. "You look a mess." 

Derek hasn't shaved in days, has a heavy frown lining his face and to be fair, he hasn’t had the greatest year so far - he reserves the right to have a grumpy few days.

“I’m fine.”

“You look like a degenerate hobo with a beard fetish,” Lydia remarks, eyebrow cocked. “But with less style.”

He crosses his arms and looks away from Lydia, it’s childish he knows but he can’t help but be reverted back to his childhood antics whenever Lydia is around.

They’d grown up together, she being his sister’s best friend and exactly three hundred and sixty five days older than Derek; a fact she makes sure to lord over him whenever the opportunity arises, despite him being _her_ boss.  

“Why are you even here? Aren’t you supposed to be in the city?” Derek asks and he frowns. “I don’t even like you.”

“Stiles called Erica, who called Laura who called me,” Lydia explains. “I came straight from the airport. I’m here to get your ass in gear because the company won’t run itself, Derek.”

“Why don’t you just take the company,” Derek says instead. “You’ve been doing everything anyway.”

Lydia huffs a sigh, “That’s another thing, thank you for ignoring all my e-mails. No, really, Derek. _Thanks,_ because being your head associate and doing _your_ job at the same time is something I can totally do off the bat. It’s no hardship at all.”

“I could just fire you if you want.”

She levels her very best unimpressed look at him, “We all know that I’m going to be getting my name on the door soon enough, Derek. Don’t even pretend otherwise. _Hale and Martin_ ," Lydia declares. "It has a nice ring to it.”

She smiles at him, but it falters and falls a little at his expression. She then shuffles up the bed until Derek is caught up in a _Givenchy_ scented hug. “I’m really sorry I haven’t been here for you.”

Derek doesn’t say anything, merely tightens his arms around her. He still feels slow and lethargic, but he can feel clarity waiting just beyond reach now and he knows that if he just strives for it, he can get it.

He knows that the rut he dug himself into for the last couple of days is the slow degeneration of every rancid occurrence that has happened over the last few years.

It feels like a dark void of nothingness is about to swallow him up, but only because this has been the first time he has allowed himself to actually break down.

He can still feel it though, the thoughts and memories that he’s trying so hard to fend off. They build up against his sanity like a River Dam at its capacity, just about ready to burst. And Derek’s not too convinced that he’ll be able to survive that day if it ever comes.

When Lydia extricates herself from his hold, she siddles to his wardrobe and throws a look over her shoulder at him. “Go get in the shower.”

Derek still hasn’t moved when she lays his clothes out at the edge of the bed, Lydia lifts a single eyebrow. “I _will_ drag your ass into the shower if I have to. And I’ll turn Isaac into the most annoying brat in the country.”

He huffs a laugh and throws a pillow at Lydia’s head, slinking out of the bedroom as she yells, “And for the love of God, Derek, s _have_. You look _fucking terrifying_.”

-

[You've proved to be a real human being and a real hero.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3_4t3jUsiJk&list=PLgnxrTrD23zQLT9ILLqmwjuXZFWlp1MSr) 

-

When Stiles, Isaac and Wolf come back they find Lydia and Derek, showered, dressed and clean shaven, going over the figures of the company.

They’ve been working steadily since Lydia’s arrival some two hours previously and it’s helped Derek get his mind out of the mess and trivialities it had fallen into. Lydia leaves soon after Stiles dumps the bag of groceries on the kitchen counter, but not before she takes Stiles aside to have a quiet conversation.

Derek’s not an idiot, he knows precisely _why_ she's pulled him aside, even if he can’t actually hear the words she’s saying.

It feels invasive for her to tell Stiles how to ‘handle’ Derek, because this is _Stiles_ and this thing between them is tenuous and so, _so_ new. He’ll be distraught if Stiles decides that Derek and his burdens are too much for him.

Lydia leaves with a kiss on Isaac’s cheek and a fondly supercilious pat on Derek’s head, telling him that she’s going to take his office in town for herself.

Stiles stands at the counter taking out the groceries before repacking it all in the linen-lined wicker basket he'd brought. He's having a quiet, very serious conversation with Isaac, who is sitting on the counter, eating the snacks more than packing them, about the pros and cons of _Marceline the Vampire Queen_.

“Are you going somewhere?” Derek tentatively asks later, conversation with Stiles has been strained in the last couple of days and few words, other than Stiles’ terse _“Eat, Derek”,_ have been exchanged between them.

Stiles doesn’t even look up to him as he places the last few containers of muffins in the basket, “We’re going for a drive.”

“Oh,” Derek says and he feels a little sad and nervous at the prospect of being alone in the apartment again. “Have fun.”

“We will,” Stiles replies easily, he looks up at Derek with mild amusement, rolls his eyes. “Go put on your shoes, Derek. I’d like to actually leave sometime today.”

They take Stiles’ jeep east, cutting straight across the town and out the other side onto a road devoid of any other cars but theirs; Stiles seems to know precisely where he’s going. 

The road they’re on has the forest in a dark green canvas running all along the passenger side, whilst on the other side, the road tethers off to a precipice - falling away to nothing but a wide lake and the endless blue sky.

They stop briefly at the side of the road, so that Derek can grab Isaac from the back seat and plop him on his lap for the remainder of the drive. They open the windows of the car and the warm spring air filters inside, along with the golden rays of the sun.

Derek feels lighter than he has in days, speeding down the road as Stiles sings along to the mix-tape he made with Scott in the ninth grade. Derek hasn’t heard these songs in years, but he still shyly mumbles the lyrics alongside Stiles’ passionate, off-key warbling.

Stiles takes a turn into a wide dry riverbed about forty minutes into the drive. They put their windows up and laugh at Isaac’s amazed expressions as Stiles drives through the large puddles that have yet to dry in the sun. Isaac presses his hands to the windows as the water cascades over the jeep, eyes wide and blue.

They clamber out of the jeep at the edge of the riverbed, Stiles carrying Wolf and the picnic basket into the alcove, taking twists and turns into a large clearing by the wayside of a clear, shallow stream. They eat lunch in the warmth of the radiance curling into the gaps of the tall trees around them.

Isaac soon gets impatient with eating and edges closer to the stream, sitting on his haunches to dip his palm flat over the ripples of the water, looking over at Derek and Stiles with a look akin to excited wonder when the water laps at his palm.

Wolf stretches out on the blanket between Stiles and Derek, basking in the warm shaft of light flooding the entire area. Stiles throws his head back in laughter at something Derek says and he looks so happy, so carefree, that Derek wants nothing more than to capture his lips in a kiss.

But then Isaac is tripping over himself in a haste to show Derek the tiny ladybug situated in the palm of his hand before he saunters off to look at the collection of golden edged leaves that hang off of a sapling tree over by the side.

The air is spiced with the smell of new earth and water and sunlit happiness. The hours pass in a blur of contentment, stealthy glances and quick touches exchanged between Derek and Stiles.

Isaac falls asleep curled up next Wolf, between the two adults, after presenting Derek and Stiles with a wildflower each. Derek waits until he’s absolutely sure that Isaac is asleep before he vaults over his son’s sleeping form and pins Stiles to the ground with the heavy weight of his body and steals a warm kiss.

"Thank you," Derek eventually says, gently bumping his nose against Stiles'. "For staying."

Stiles rolls his eyes, he huffs a breath but he smiles and wraps his arms around Derek anyway. "I wasn't going to leave you, idiot."

When Derek rolls over to sit beside Stiles, he tangles his fingers with the other man’s, perfectly happy to stay within the stillness of the day with the three figures beside him.

“How did you know I was going to get up today?”

“I didn’t,” Stiles admits, squinting up at the sunlight refracting in a yellow-hued halo around Derek’s head. “I was just going to drag you out if need be. But Lydia got there first.”

“She’s like that,” Derek sighs, watching as Wolf stirs beside Isaac. “What did she say to you?”

Stiles surges up from the ground to press a kiss to Derek’s lips, “That you always come back eventually.”

The ride back home is much more subdued, the balmy air curling inside the jeep, Stiles’ hair fluttering in the breeze as he rummages in the glove box and brings out two pairs of cheap sunglasses, proffering one to Derek.

They look ridiculous, wearing plastic shades and riding through the darkening gold of the coming dusk in a dusty blue beat-up jeep, but Derek smiles anyway. He doesn’t even realise that the tension in his chest has loosened up until he’s carrying a sleeping Isaac on his shoulder, Stiles carrying Wolf beside him, looking tired but pleased as he grins at Derek.

Derek closes the door to Isaac’s bedroom and walks down the hall towards the front door, Stiles is waiting there for him, a soft smile playing on his lips. Derek cradles his head as he kisses him, presses him against the front door and sighs into his mouth.

“Thank you,” Derek says and he kisses Stiles’ lips again, and again and then again until the other man stumbles out of the door, still holding tightly to Derek’s shirt. Stiles leaves him with a lingering bite to Derek’s bottom lip.

When Derek finally closes the door, locks it and checks it over, then leans his head against the cool wood. He bites his lip against his burgeoning smile, he can still taste Stiles’ lips on his and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, all is not yet lost. 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it turns out that I had FOUR exams last week, not two like I thought but whatever! It's going pretty well I think (I fervently hope!0 but I can't wait until next week because then I'll have no more exams and I don't have to worry about anything university-related until my eighteenth birthday in August! I'm going to be an adult!! I'm probably way more excited that turning eighteen probably warrants but I'm still excited! I'm going to be moving away and going to Uni and doing real adult things! I don't even understand how I've grown up so fast! Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Reviews and Comments would make my life and I'll see you next week you guys!


	13. Demons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Guys! What's up!  
> I hope you've all been well, so here's my newest chapter. I hope you guys like it, there are some references to substance abuse, spousal abuse and racism (and wow, this story ha a lot more heavy themes than I originally thought!).  
> This week's song is Demons by Imagine Dragons and seriously, watch the video. It's beautiful. The ending always makes me cry.  
> Hope you like it!

[Don't get too close, it's dark inside, it's where my demons hide. It's where my demons hide. ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mWRsgZuwf_8&list=PLgnxrTrD23zQLT9ILLqmwjuXZFWlp1MSr&index=17)

-

Derek is three hours deep into his work in his office, his real office that is, all the way over in the centre of town, when a knock on his door rouses him from his concentration.

He looks up to find his best friend in the door way clad in a [long, midnight-black dress](http://images.thesartorialist.com/thumbnails/2012/01/61911Blkcam2_6804Web.jpg), a battered old canvas bag strapped across her chest and holding two bags of takeaway in her hand. 

"Lunch?" Erica smiles, walking in and closing the door behind her.

Her hair falls soft and straight in a high ponytail, swishing from side to side alongside her gait as she walks towards him.

There's no-one but Derek in the office; his new associates haven't been hired, and the selected ones from the city aren't due to transfer for a couple of days yet.

So his office is quiet and still, a little eerie in his sole presence but it isn't something he's unaccustomed to.

As it is, Derek holds on to the vague sense of the oncoming weekend; Derek has all the hours between his and Isaac's Friday appointment at Doctor Morrell's and Little League on Sunday, to which Isaac _insists_ on going, to spend close and comforted at home.

The quiet hum of the systems in the building, a low backdrop to the silence, has helped him to concentrate and truth be told, Derek's just glad that Lydia took the reins when she did and was able to keep him afloat through all of this. 

Erica and Derek settle on the floor behind Derek's desk, looking out at Beacon Hills through the wide windows with containers of food from the Italian restaurant from down the street lying in the small space between them.

The waning sun dips behind the grey clouds gathering in the sky, making it look like ancient air, musty and humid. But it’s a warm day nevertheless and the Beaconian people mill about the streets like worker bees - tiny from this perspective, hurrying about with a learned expedience. 

Erica slips out of her black stilettos and presses her bare feet to the cold glass in front of her, dress spilling around in a silken mess as she leans back on Derek's desk. 

They’re sitting pretty close together, a void between created only for their food. Erica knocks her shoulder gently into Derek's, asking, "How are you feeling?"

Derek shrugs, digging his fork into his linguine container with a forced vigour, "Same old." 

When he eventually looks back her, he balks a little at the stern look of disapproval in her face.

"I'm serious, Derek." 

Derek sighs and thuds his head back onto the drawers of the desk, he closes his eyes and licks his lips.

He doesn't even know where to start. He doesn't want to speak, doesn’t want to say a _single_ word because he knows that he'll have to hide things from her, that he'll have to skirt around the truth in order to not hurt her.

It's not the first time that Derek has had to lie to Erica of course, but experience still doesn't make it any easier. She’s been a constant in his life ever since they were twelve years old. She’s not even his friend anymore, Erica is his _family,_ and there’s nothing Derek hates more than lying to his family.

Yet, there's an unspoken agreement between he and Stiles to keep this thing between a secret for the time being. It's much too new and much too soon for it to be anything other than theirs.

It's tentative going, this. And now Stiles is frustratingly careful in his treatment of Derek, the man is aware of his every single movement, and Derek can _feel_ the hesitancy rolling off of him in waves.

He hates it. 

He's not made of glass and he isn't broken. He isn't going to shatter if Stiles touches him.

But Derek has no idea how to tell him that; he has no clue how to even address the cold coil of rejection that seeps into his skin each and every single time he has to suffer Stiles' half-abandoned movements. 

Derek sighs once more.

"It's slow going,” he says instead. “But I'm getting there." 

Erica's hand finds his and she laces their fingers together, squeezing tightly. She offers him a smile when he opens his eyes to look at her. 

"What happened?" Erica asks quietly. Derek hasn't actually told many people about what had set him off this time. Nobody else except for his parents, the Sheriff (whom he had visited the day previously) and Stiles knew about the phone call. 

Derek takes a deep breath, finding that he can’t quite look at her, "Kate called me." 

He feels rather than sees Erica's reaction. He feels the start in her breath, feels her hand tighten in his, feels the warm spiel of determination taking hold in the rigid manner of her posture.

"And that triggered you?" Erica hedges. 

Derek thinks carefully, he's treading on unsteady ground here because, with a few misplaced words, his whole world can come tumbling down around him.

"Kind of," he answers eventually. It’s not the most eloquent answer he’s ever given but he prepares for her reaction nevertheless. "Stiles accidentally brushed up against my scars."

Erica tenses beside him, and for a second Derek feels cold regret wash over him in an instant, he's sure he's said something wrong, absolutely sure that he's given something away. 

But instead Erica asks, "Scars?"

Derek relaxes a little, breathing guiltily in relief. When he looks towards Erica he's taken aback by the pale terror in her face. 

Erica knows the extent of Kate's wrath, she was the only one he told except for his sister, and that was a conversation he wishes he'll never have to repeat.

Derek thinks his mom knows too, despite Laura taking over the case. He did ask his sister to keep as much of what happened to him a secret, but his mom isn't stupid. 

"What did she do to you?"

Derek looks down at their joined hands before looking up at his best friend, he shrugs, "She hurt me." 

"Where?"

"Erica-"

" _Where?_ " 

It's futile not to answer her, Derek knows, not with that look of fierce fortitude marking her face. 

He barely places a hand to the dip just below his ribs, his palm searing hot into the skin, before Erica is swinging herself over their food containers and straddling his outstretched legs. 

Derek is suddenly glad the office is completely empty because the tableaux they present, as Erica unfastens his tie and quickly unbuttons his shirt, is an interesting one to say the least.

But there's nothing sensual about this. Erica's movements are economical and methodical even in their chaotic nature. Derek doesn't try to stop her because he knows that she needs to see it; she needs to _see_ the scars, if only to reassure herself that they're not still bleeding. 

She halts when she does finally see them, with one hand holding his shirt open and the other hovering over the marks. She stills for a long time.

"Anywhere else?" 

"No."  

She stares for a minute longer, as if reassuring herself that they won't multiply. Derek knows that she's slotting everything he told her into place with the scars.

She looks up at him and she says, "I'm going to rip her head off." 

Derek can't help it, he laughs because the threat is _just_ like Erica, and he says, "Violence is what got me into this mess in the first place." 

He regrets saying it as soon as the words leave his mouth, Erica pales and looks stricken with herself, brown eyes glinting in the paleness of her face. 

"I'm sorry," she says. "God, I'm sorry, Derek. I shouldn't have-"

He pulls her into a hug, he wraps his arms around her, says, "No, don't. Don't." 

Erica squeezes her eyes tight and hugs back just as fiercely, "I don't like seeing you hurt."

She pulls back long minutes later and reclaims her seat next to Derek, she doesn't say anything, merely blows him a kiss before going back to her lunch.

Derek really, sincerely, appreciates that. It's the small gestures, he thinks as he does up his shirt, that never fails to pull him back from the brink and into the general safety of normality.

Derek's been having his 'off' days for a long time. Days in which he curls up into himself - retreating far into the recesses of his mind.

It was never that much of a problem growing up, because not only did he surrounded himself with his family (who understood him) but he was incredibly lucky at school.

Boyd, Anthony, Laura and Lydia were always close by, even though they're years older than Derek and Erica, though Derek was by no means unpopular in school.

He knew lots of people, he was friendly and generally well liked, but he didn't much engage in the politics of social hierarchy. 

Needless to say, his dark moods grew worse in the last couple of years, as everything with Kate also worsened. They stretched out over days instead of hours, opening up a void of humid guilt in his chest cavity, a feeling so large it hurt to breathe sometimes.

Now Derek looks over at Erica, she's picking at her food, looking for the olives hidden amongst her Tortellini.

He knocks his elbow into hers, "What's up with you?" 

She looks up at him, and he can see that her doing that subtle eye shift, the one that means that she's actively forcing herself to maintain eye contact.

"Nothing,” she lies. “I just wanted to see you." 

Derek levels her with an unimpressed look. Erica merely rolls her eyes and goes back to picking at her food. 

"I'm fine, Derek. It's really nothing." 

Erica is deliberately not looking at him now, placing her focus solely on the container in front of her, the cardboard scrunching up in the corners from her tight grip. 

"What?" Derek says, he's not willing to let this go, but he tries to alleviate the tension with a quirk of a grin and he teases, "Are you pregnant or something?" 

His huff of laughter quickly dies down when he notices that she freezes almost completely. Derek stares at her for a long time, until she gathers up enough courage to peek up at him. 

" _Are_ you pregnant?" Derek asks. 

"I might be," Erica says, smile flickering hesitantly over her lips.

"Are you shitting me?" Derek asks, frowning. "This isn't like the time when we were fifteen and you-"

"No," Erica assures but there is a ghost of a smile on her lips, she's forever proud of how panicked she'd made Derek because of _that_ particular prank. "No, I'm serious this time." 

"Swear?"

"I swear."

Derek sighs, places his takeaway container beside him and turns to face Erica. "And you're sure?" 

"I got the blood test back from my doctor this morning," she says. 

"How far along are you?"

She picks uselessly at the material of her dress and Derek rakes his gaze all over her face as her eyes mist over with oncoming tears, she shrugs, "Nine weeks." 

A moment passes before he carefully asks, "How do you feel about it?" 

"Good, I think," she says, nodding. She smiles but it's all wrong, there's tension around her brown eyes and sadness pulling at her mouth. "It's been a long time coming." 

"How does Boyd feel about it?" 

"I haven't told him yet," Erica admits, but they both know that he'll be ecstatic. 

Derek furrows his brow in concerned confusion, "Then what's the problem?" 

Erica's breathing stutters then, her chest heaving through her tears, her lips tremble when she looks back at Derek, she looks distraught. 

"I called my parents the other week," she says, and Derek's heart seizes up with pressure. "To invite them to the wedding, y'know?"

Derek doesn't even need to ask about the dénouement of _that_ particular conversation. He pulls Erica towards him, wrapping his arms around her as she hides her face in his shirt and sobs.

Derek hasn't thought about Erica's parents in years. He hasn't actually _seen_ them since he was seventeen. 

Mr and Mrs Reyes aren't very nice people, Derek thinks.

Even when they were kids and Derek had only met them a handful of times, he could still garner the lack of goodness in their hearts - the goodness that had, inexplicably, instilled in his best friend. 

Erica began dating Boyd when she was fourteen, he being two years older than Erica and Derek. It created a lot of tension - her parents weren't fans of Boyd's heritage and Erica wasn't a fan of their racism. 

By the time Erica was sixteen she was practically living at the Hale’s, splitting her time between Derek's and Boyd's, going weeks without speaking to her family.

It had caused so much strain, so much heartbreak and too many nights in which Erica would crawl into bed with Derek to alleviate some of the lonely melancholy. 

The Reyes had moved by the time Erica was seventeen, and it may or may not have been possibly due to Talia's foreboding and fierce protection of both Erica and Boyd. There is nothing Talia hated more than injustice. So they had left, leaving Erica in the care of Derek's mom, with a parting assurance that she and Boyd would never last.

Derek doesn't think that Erica speaks or sees much of her parents these days; she used to call them each week years ago, not particularly for them but for her younger sister, Emma. In the years since Emma moved out, Erica has had less and less reason to call her parents.

Erica clings tighter to Derek now as she sobs and he knows exactly what she's thinking; if they never accepted Erica and Boyd's relationship, how on earth will they ever accept their child?

When Erica's sobs quieten down and she lies her head on his lap, toes wiggling beyond the hem of her dress, Derek knows that it's way past either of their lunch hours.

He’s not particularly concerned about it though; instead he cards his fingers through her hair and watches the sunlight stream through small gaps in the clouds as they roll over the hills.

He can see for miles here; their building is one of tallest, so the view is of the unspoiled, pure forestry right at the very horizon and the busy civility in all the spaces between. 

"You look like a raccoon," Derek tells Erica, because she does, with her mascara smudged around her eyes and her cheeks ruddy red. 

She huffs out a laugh and smacks the back of her on his chest; then she lifts the same hand to grope at his chest in two firm pulls. 

Derek starts and bats her hands away, "What the _hell_  are you doing?" 

"You need to start working out again," Erica says absently. "Your chest isn't as firm as it used to be." 

Derek's face slips into an unimpressed expression that has Erica snorting in laughter; she laughs even harder when Derek puts his hand on her face and shoves her away. 

She laughs until there are tears in her eyes and breathlessness in her lungs. She sighs and looks back to Derek. 

"What the hell am I going to do, Derek?"

-

Lydia turns up at the office a little later asking, ‘Got room for one more?’ despite the fact that she knows that the answer to that is always a resounding, emphatic _yes_.

She sees the careful hand that Erica lays on her stomach and the smudges around Erica’s red-rimmed eyes and she catches Derek’s eye, but she doesn’t say anything.

Lydia leans back against the glass window opposite them, she steals most of Derek’s food and they spend the rest of their work afternoon there, eating cold pasta and talking. It’s been a long while since they've been able to do that.

Lydia's hair falls in delicate ringlets over her [electric blue frock](http://www.thesartorialist.com/photos/on-the-street-blue-print-red-print-milano/) as she frowns thoughtfully, she chews slowly and then she says, “We should have a barbeque this Saturday.”

Erica brightens from her perch on the floor, her eyes glint and she looks up at Derek. “We should - bring the gang back together again.”

Lydia already has her phone out, emailing all of the pertinent guests, talking out loud about bonfires and champagne and whatever else she deems acceptable.

“We can have it at my parent’s house,” Derek suggests a little while later and Erica scoffs an ‘ _obviously’._  The Hale’s is where they always hung out when they were growing up, it’d be nothing short of odd to not continue the tradition.

“Hey, Der?” Erica asks quietly, Lydia’s on the phone to Laura, the two of them already making plans, Derek has a split second to realise that the two of them could probably take over the galaxy with sheer power of their organisational skills, before he looks down at Erica. “Can we take Isaac Saturday night? Take him back on Monday?”

“For practice?” Derek teases and she whacks a hand across his face.

There are two sides of him warring with each other. One one hand, Derek isn't too comfortable with the thought of leaving Isaac, even if it only is for day and a half, he would much rather plaster himself to his son's side for the rest of time.

And yet, a weekend away means that maybe Derek will be able to spend the time with Stiles, without having to worry about Isaac walking in on them.

It’s selfish, Derek knows, but it’s been so long since he’s had something like this, something that blooms fresh and loving in his chest. It’s too good of a feeling to be able to resist.

“Sure,” he says, and they smile at each other. “Just make sure to bring him back in one piece.”

Erica rolls her eyes, but Derek has no doubts that she’ll keep his little boy safe. 

Later, when the containers are completely empty and Lydia is using Erica’s laptop to scour through wedding dress websites, she looks up with a thoughtful gaze.

“Erica, your parents aren’t coming right?” Lydia asks and her gaze sharpens in fierce disapproval when Erica morosely shakes her head. Lydia has always been more than vocal in her condemnation of Erica’s parents. “Who’s going to walk you down the aisle?”

“I can walk you down the aisle,” Derek offers.

“Absolutely not,” Erica says and she rolls her eyes at Derek’s offended expression. “You’re my best man, genius.”

“Oh,” Derek tries and fails to superimpose the affable grin that spreads over his face. “I can still walk you though.”

“No, you can’t,” Lydia interjects. “ _I’m_ walking with you, because I’m Erica’s best woman. Laura and Anthony are walking behind us because they’re _Boyd’s_ best man and woman.”

They’ve got this all figured out, Derek realises, despite the fact that the wedding isn’t for another year yet. “So, who’s going to walk you? If you even want anyone to.”

"I was thinking abour asking your dad," Erica says, biting her lip in nervousness “Do you think he’ll mind? Is that too presumptuous?”

“Are you kidding me?” Derek says. “Dad probably loves you more than he loves me.”

“That is true,” Lydia comments idly, smirking at Derek’s expression before she looks over at Erica. “He’ll be more than happy to, I’m sure.”

They spend the rest of their time with companiable chatter and the hours drift away from them soon enough, it’s not until an hour later that they’re packing up all of their stuff to leave, they haven’t done any work in hours but Derek doesn't really mind.

“You're driving me home, DJ,” Lydia says.

Derek frowns, grumbling, “Why don’t you take a cab?”

Lydia sighs, “Because I want _you_ to drive me.”

“I don’t have to do what you tell me, Lyds,” Derek says.

“Yes, you do,” she insists, sharing an amused look with Erica. “I’m older than you.”

“I’m your boss.”

“I’m your _Lydia_.”

She has a point, Derek concedes, so naturally he ignores her and heads towards the lift, jabbing the button with too much force as he futilely tries to ignore the pleased huff of laughter from his friends.

-

Isaac sits cross legged on the corner of the living room floor a day later, staring with reverential determination at the clock Derek has placed on the coffee table. 

Isaac can’t read it of course, but that doesn't stop him from tracking the minute hand from ticking its slow jerk of motion.

Nine minutes, Derek had said, four for Isaac's age and five more for his insolence. Isaac had glared and frowned and grumbled but he did eventually stomp off to the corner to sit down with a heavy huff. 

Derek is on his laptop on the sofa. One hand clicking away at spreadsheets, e-mails and a dizzying amount of numbers, and the other wrapped firmly around Wolf - who had tried to snuffle into Isaac's side despite his son's obvious time-out. 

Isaac had looked so upset when Derek was taking Wolf away, his eyes wide and his fingers curling into Wolf's fur with a parting sadness, both his son and his pup whining so pitifully that Derek almost gave in and left them together.

He would have done too had it not been from Stiles' judgmental tut and yell of _"Don't even think about it, Derek,"_ all the way from the kitchen. It frustrates him how Stiles always knows exactly what he's about to do, without even being in the room to witness it.

So Derek had taken the pup and sat on the couch and now proceeds to attempt his work once more. It's prudent that he finishes his work. He _knows_ this, even as he tries to ignore Isaac's annoyed little huffs. 

It's been a rough week to say the least, and it had taken him more than a little while to feel somewhat normal again. Longer still to learn how to pretend that the heavy weight of dread and apprehension doesn't constantly settle in his stomach like poisonous lead.

As soon as the minute hand moves for the ninth time, Isaac whips his head towards his father and makes a beseeching noise in the back of his throat, curls bouncing as he looks up to Derek. Derek, for his part, raises a single brow, though he moves his laptop to the seat next to him and motions his son forward. 

Isaac clambers his way upright and makes his sheepish way towards Derek, climbing to stand on his father's thighs. He wraps his arms around Derek's neck and presses their foreheads together. 

Derek waits. 

He goes a little cross-eyed as he tries to maintain eye contact with his son at this close proximity, Isaac laughs a little breathlessly at his expression before he pulls back. 

"'M sorry," he says. 

"What for?" Derek asks and he knows that Isaac hates this bit, he pouts and he fiddles with the collar of Derek's shirt for a long time, so Derek prompts, "Isaac? What _for?_ "

"For shouting," Isaac eventually mumbles, swaying back and forth, precariously balanced atop Derek’s legs. 

"And?"

"And for throwing my toys."

Derek ducks his head to procure eye contact with his son, he raises an eyebrow, repeats, "And?" 

Isaac scrunches his mouth to the side, he closes his fists in the material of Derek's shirt and he sighs, “And I promise I won't do it again, Daddy." 

Derek nods, pulling Isaac to curl up to his chest. "Good." 

He lies Isaac down an hour later for his nap. Wolf has already been lost to the world for the previous twenty minutes, so Derek just sits on the edge of the bed brushing his son’s curls from his face.

“Daddy?” Isaac says quietly, his voice laden with sleep. Derek hums in question. “I know what I wanna be when I’m a grown-up.”

Derek’s lips tug up in amusement, Isaac changes his preferene every week. “What’s that?”

His blinks open his eyes and beckons Derek closer, as if divulging an important secret. He cups his hand around his dad’s ear.

“A werewolf,” Isaac whispers. “Like you.”

“A werewolf?” Derek pulls a face, “I’m not a werewolf, pup.”

“You _are_.” Isaac insists, curling into his side and slipping into sleep, and he yawns. “You’re big, and strong, and ... and you call me your  _puppy_.”

His hand seeks out Derek’s and he pats it twice, “’S okay, daddy, I can keep a secret.”

Derek goes back into the kitchen with a ludicrous smile on his face, feeling light and happy and ridiculously amused.

Stiles is at the counter making, what Derek is sure, is his fifth cup of coffee that day.

“Isaac thinks I’m a werewolf,” Derek chuckles as he approaches Stiles.

Stiles throws a look over his shoulder and he smiles a little, but it falters a little shy of full, “Yeah?”

Derek can sense the tension that has been following Stiles ever since he turned up that morning, he’s been quiet and cautious, spending all of his time in the kitchen on his laptop. It’s been worrying Derek, and he can’t help but feel that it’s his fault somehow.

He puts his hand on the small of Stiles’ back and wills him to turn around.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, he ducks in for a kiss but Stiles turns his head - making Derek catch his cheek instead. Derek's skin crawls with the heavy weight of rejection, he takes a step back.

“Noah came over to my apartment yesterday,” Stiles admits after a few tense seconds. “To pick up some things he’d forgotten at mine.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh_ ,” Stiles retorts, he crosses his arms over his chest and presses his lips together. “You can imagine how well _that_ went.”

Derek doesn’t know what to say to that, he’s awful at things like this. He feels ineffective as he stands there, hands hanging idly by his sides. Stiles leans back against the counter and refuses to look at him.

Stiles is shaking, Derek can see, fine tremors that string through his body like livewires, his eyes are large and wet.

Silence hangs over them with a heavy presence, it’s hard and suffocating, and it’s pulling them down with each coming second.

“Stiles,” Derek hesitantly touches his elbow but Stiles pushes his hand off.

“ _Don't,_ ” Stiles snaps. He presses his hands to his face, the tremors coming in thick and fast now. He vibrates within his skin, shaking with misery and Derek can only helplessly look on. "Just-. Just don't."

When Stiles finally pulls his hands from his face, teardrops are cresting on the tips of his eyelashes, his mouth is downturned and his eyes are red.

“What are we doing here, Derek?” Stiles asks roughly, not even looking at him. “We have this, this  _thing_ between us and I have no idea what to do with it.”

Derek’s stomach drops and the blood drains from his face. _This_  is precisely what he had been dreading. “Do you not want this?”

“Of course I do,” Stiles sighs. “I just- I don’t understand why you _want_ me. I’m a mess.”

Derek gears up to refute his words, opening his mouth and drawing in breath, but Stiles beats him to it.

“No, I am, Derek,” he says, tears beginning their cursed journey down his face. “I am, underneath it all I’m just as broken as the rest of them. I’m just a stupid fucking kid playing at being in love.”

Derek’s heart stutters miserably at the confession and he steps forward, cradling Stiles’ face, “I want this, Stiles. I want _you_.”

Stiles shakes his head, “There are things you don’t know, Derek.”

"So tell me," Derek presses his forehead to Stiles’. “You can tell me.”

“It’s not that simple.”

"Yes it is," Derek stresses, pulling back to look at Stiles, shaking him a little bit, like that'll make him understand.

Stiles can only helplessly look at Derek, tears gathering in his eyes as his breath hitches and hiccoughs, he wraps his fingers around Derek's wrists, "You'll hate me."

“Stiles-”

“The only reason I dropped out of Stanford,” Stiles interrupts, it bursts out of him as he raises his voice above Derek’s, like a geyser of uncontained thoughts. He takes a steadying breath, looking so scared all of a sudden that it frightens Derek a little. “The only reason is because I was going to get kicked out anyway.”

Derek stares at Stiles in mild confusion, though the other man refuses to make eye contact, Stiles licks his lips fretfully before he continues.

“Stanford was my dream school, y’know? I worked _so_ hard to get in,” Stiles says, folding in on himself. “Everyone said I wouldn’t be able to do it but I _did_. I made _sure_ that I did, just to prove them wrong. But when I got there I-, it was _so_ difficult, Derek. I just couldn't do it," Stiles takes a deep breath, harshly wiping his tears with the back of his hand. “I knew it was going to be hard but - it was a _hell_ of a lot more than I could take. And I have ADHD, you know? It just made everything about a _thousand_ times worse.”

Derek’s hands slip from Stiles’ face and he straightens up, creating space between the two of them, his hands hang awkwardly by his side and he thinks he knows what’s coming. He looks at Stiles' face, at the moisture in his eyes, the tightness of his lips, and Derek knows exactly what he's going to say. 

“I had to do a lot of all-nighters,” Stiles continues, shaking his head regretfully. “And everything just snowballed so much that I-“

“You abused your Adderall,” Derek finishes for him, he takes another step back, watching Stiles with a slack sort of surprise.

Stiles nods where he stands, hunched in on himself and cheeks reddened with shame. The tremors make a lot more sense now, Derek thinks, but he can’t stop staring.

“And then I couldn't stop," Stiles shrugs, looking helpless. "I was on a scholarship,” he sniffs pitifully. “And I had to be _the model student,_ y'know? But then around about the end of the second year I started to, to crash a lot. I needed it constantly. I needed it so much I could hardly _breathe_ let alone do anything else. And when I _didn't_ have it, I couldn't- I couldn't function right. So my attendance, it just …”

Stiles bites his lip.

“I had to drop out,” he says, taking a deep breath before he laughs a little bitterly. “Noah was so _angry_ when he found out, I thought he was going t-." Stiles stops abruptly, sighing hard as his rubs his forehead with the palm of his hand. "But he helped me. Noah, he, um, he helped me to stop.”

Derek doesn’t say anything as he tries, in vain, to process everything Stiles has just revealed. The silence hangs dark and ominous around them. Stiles reaches out a hand and wraps it around Derek’s arm, he tenses but he doesn’t pull away.

“Derek?” Stiles pleads quietly, fingers grappling at Derek's skin, trying to hold on. "Just say something, please?"

Derek looks at Stiles and sees how the other man flinches from the cold, hardness in his gaze, at the anger that festers in him. “You didn’t think to tell me this _before_ you started working with my son?”

“I was scared,” Stiles says quickly, admitting it all with nothing short of shame. “I was so scared and no-one knew about it, I-. I wasn’t going to take the job at first but my dad, my _dad_ , Derek, he was _so_ excited for it. And you know how I am with jobs, right? I couldn’t say no. And I thought that you’d tell him, if you knew.”

Stiles slides his fingers down Derek's arm, tugs on Derek’s hand, locks his gaze with him and he says, “I couldn’t risk that. You can break up with me if you want. You can fire me but, Derek - Derek, you _can’t_ tell my dad, okay? He can’t know. Please. Just, _please._  It’ll break his heart.”

Stiles looks at Derek with an expression of pure pain, tears runing down his face. He looks so fragile, so different to the Stiles that Derek knows - the person Derek has been with for all these weeks. Here he’s something a lot younger, a lot more delicate and a hell of a lot more hurt.

Something deep inside Derek breaks. It shatters in a cloud of heartbreak and affection and he pulls Stiles towards him.

He’s still undeniably angry, of course he is, but he knows how great Stiles is with Isaac, he trusts him and he’s aware, on some level, of the amount of trust Stiles must have in _him_ to be able to admit this.

Derek can feel the relief that runs through Stiles’ body as he’s enveloped in Derek’s arms, his knees buckle and he wraps his arms tightly around Derek’s waist.

“I’m okay now,” he breathes into Derek’s shirt, the wetness seeping through and his voice heavy with quiet comfort. “I promise you, Derek, I promise. I’m okay now.”

Derek merely hums into his hair, they’ll still need to sit and talk about this he knows, but he also knows how unfair it is to judge Stiles on his past when Derek is a bundle of problems himself.

It’s nonsensically stupid to even attempt a relationship with Stiles, Derek thinks, because a relationship shouldn’t be _this_ hard this early.

But he feels a genuine kinship with Stiles, like they’re two broken pieces of the same soul, and he wants this to work. He wants it to work so damn much. He _owes_ it to himself to at least make an attempt at being happy, and Stiles does make him happy.

Derek lifts Stiles’ head and presses a kiss to his lips, he feels as Stiles sighs with relief, he kisses hard and wanting, wrapping his hands around Derek, kissing him his thanks.

Derek wraps a hand around Stiles’ waist, pulls him closer and presses his forehead to Stiles’. He looks at the reddened cheeks of the other man, presses a thumb to trembling lips, rubs over his cheek, ghosting words of comfort over his mouth.

“We’ll work it out, Stiles.”

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hope you like that, this chapter seemed to feature A LOT of crying. This is un-beta'd, but I'll read through it and amend all of the mistakes soon!   
> So what do you think of this chapter? How do you feel about the whole Stiles revelation thing? Do you think it works, do you like it? (well not _like_ it but you know what I mean!) I look forward to reading your comments! :)


	14. Hunstanton Pier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isaac calls his grandparents 'Mama' and 'Papa' because I was an idiot child. I just copied what my mother called my grandparents, and because I was the first grandchild, everybody that came after copied me and now it's just a thing in my family!  
> This week's song is one of my favourites, it's by Deaf Havana and I literally wanted to just put ALL of the lyrics in there.

[ _In my heart and in my soul are all the people that I’ve known and the places I've called home. But in my head and in my mind they’re all just things I’ve left behind, reminders of the changing times and these aging bones of mine._ ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=te712XaVMgM&list=PLgnxrTrD23zQLT9ILLqmwjuXZFWlp1MSr)

-

Derek pulls Stiles into his bed later that night. He grasps his hands in his, brings them to his lips, kisses his pale knuckles and he says, 'stay tonight'. 

So Stiles does, he nods and he sighs and Derek takes him to his bed. 

The curtains are pushed to one side and the windows are open wide to allow the cool air to permeate the room with the smell of nightfall and dew. And in the stillness of the hour the moon hangs high in the sky, new and waxing and casting shadows of illumination around the room as the light glints off of the white sheets that surround the both of them. 

Stiles lies on his stomach, half sprawled over Derek's chest and curling into his side as Derek brushes his fingers through his hair. They're both shirtless, gathering comfort from the warm slide of skin on skin as they breathe together. 

Stiles has been quiet since his revelation earlier that morning; he's been walking around the apartment like an unfathomable dream, like a travestying parody of his former self. 

His fingers lightly trace the ridges of Derek's collarbones in reverence, they dip into the hollow of his throat and they trail down and hover hopefully in the divot of Derek's hip with an enchanting, strange sort of magnetism, making blood and lust flood Derek's skin with pure need. 

But Derek presses a stilling hand to Stiles' and he says, "Not tonight." 

"Sorry," Stiles replies, he curls his hand into a tight fist and then he's quiet; his steady breaths hardly even brushing upon Derek's skin. 

When Derek looks down at him, at the look of restrained sadness on his face, he can't quite help the way that he sweeps his fingers over the curve of Stiles' face, over the contour of his lips, and nor can he help the way that he tips Stiles head back to press a kiss to his mouth. 

"Don't be." 

"But I am," Stiles replies, and he looks at Derek with such an earnestness that makes his heart ache. "I'm sorry for a lot of things." 

Time rushes into itself as they lie there, seemingly moving too slow and too fast all at once. Derek drifts in and out of reveries, reality and artifice blending into one culminating factor until the only thing that grounds him is the man lying next to him. 

He cards gentle fingers through Stiles' hair, and the other man counts the time with his eyes on the clock and his hand on Derek's heart, the soft pad of his finger tapping Derek’s chest in time to his steady heartbeat. 

When their world plunges into midnight Stiles stills, and it's like he's turned into stone; the clock reads zero all the way across and it shouldn't make a difference but it does.

It really does.

The tension in the room condenses and hardens and it breathes right along with them, like it's sentient and watchful. It makes Derek uneasy, makes him cling to Stiles all the more tightly as the tension coalesces in a huddled mass over the man; he lies completely motionless for just a second or two, anguish crackling across his features and then, and _then_ , he begins to tremble. 

The shivers start slowly, and it's just as if he's seen a ghost, his body shaking against Derek. And despite it all, Derek thinks he looks beautiful; his pale skin shimmers in the moonlight like ripples on the surface of the ocean and his marble pink lips are parted gently open in thought, golden eyes trained on Derek; it makes his heart stutter and his breath catch. 

"Four hundred and seventeen,” Stiles says, like it's the answer to an unspoken question, the answer that everybody has been waiting for.

"What?" 

"The days," Stiles tells him. "It’s the number of days since I stopped." 

Derek doesn't say anything to that; he doesn't know _what_ to say. Everything that comes to mind seems utterly condescending and completely patronising, and he has no doubt it would sound much worse spoken out loud. 

He presses a kiss to Stiles' hair instead and relaxes a little when Stiles sighs into the touch, his body arches and contracts against Derek, melting against him in easy contentment.

The hours that pass by squeeze into mere seconds as they lie there in quiet contemplation, and the lowly buzz of night lulls Derek into a certain kind of serenity. Not peace, not entirely, but comfort with the man lying beside him. 

Stiles presses soft lips to Derek's skin, burning a kiss into his chest before he says, "Have you ever gone hungry, Derek?" 

Derek's blinks back into focus, confused by the question, and he looks down at him, gaze hopping from Stiles' parted lips and slowly back up to his eyes.

"I don't just mean hungry," Stiles continues. "I mean when you’re, when you're  _famished_ ; like you might just die right there and then if you don’t satiate it." 

Derek shakes his head slowly, still confused by Stiles' words.

"No," he admits. "I haven't."

Derek watches Stiles purse his lips in concentration, sees the way his eyes dart to and fro in the moonlight nothingness as he desperately searches for a way to express the bumbling words that circulate his mind. 

"It's like being poisoned by hemlock," Stiles eventually says and he lifts his hand and touches careful fingers to Derek's belly, tracing patterns discernible only by his eye, and he laughs; breathless, hollow and bitter. "Only it’s the exact opposite and it starts in your head," he presses the soft pads of his fingertips at Derek's temple, "Instead of your toes and it makes you so cold that it _burns_ , Derek. It burns for days. And you can't- _understand_ just how much noise it makes, it screams through your mind like, like a train, only faster. Then you shake and you splinter and you _hunger_ for it." 

Derek shifts and presses Stiles tight and close to him; Stiles curls in to the heat of him, his hands grasping at Derek's skin. He presses their foreheads together and Derek can almost taste the salt of the tears running wet trails down Stiles' face, in the back of his throat, hot and rancid, and his heart breaks. He wants nothing more than to shield Stiles from his own words, from the venom in his memories.

"That's what it feels like," Stiles says, and then he's furious with himself and scared and so utterly human in that moment as his fingers grasp tight at Derek’s arm that Derek feels hopelessness take root in his chest. "When I crash and I just _need_ it," Stiles says, he hastily wipes at his wet eyes and sniffs miserably, "It gets really loud in my head, y'know? Just white noise in my head so loud that it’s like a machine breaking apart, like a wet canvas being shaken out by a giant. And it _hurts_ , Derek." 

"It's okay," Derek hushes, whispering gentle kisses against his mouth and swallowing Stiles' breathless sobs. "It's okay, Stiles." 

Stiles takes a deep, wobbly breath and he places the palms of his hands firmly on Derek's chest, pushes him far enough away so that they lie eye to eye, and Stiles has a surprisingly steady gaze despite his tears but Derek can see the vestiges of fear trickling over the colour of his irises. And yet he looks strangely determined, Derek sees how he needs to say this, how the words reverberate within the chaos of his mind and how he _needs_ an outlet for it. 

"Noah's not here anymore," Stiles says and Derek feels selfish for the involuntary churning of his stomach, the way he turns his eyes away, but it’s not something that he can really help, not with the way Stiles always casually speaks of him. "He's not here anymore, and he's always been the one who stopped me." 

His fingers scrabble at Derek's cheeks, urging him, pleading Derek to look at him. 

"I'm scared, Derek," Stiles admits, then he shakes his head miserably and he says, "I don't want to go back to that. Ever. I don't, I don't want-" 

Derek turns them in an instant and presses himself over Stiles' body, pressing the other man into the mattress, surrounding him with the warmth and comfort that he can provide. 

"I'm not going to let you," Derek assures him, searing the promise into his skin. "Stiles, I swear to you that I won't let you get back to that. I won’t." 

He knows that he really shouldn't be making promises he might not be able to keep, but he can't help it. He thinks of how it was only a couple sunsets ago that Stiles was the very one putting Derek back together again, slotting the hazard pieces of Derek’s mind and sanity like it was the simplest puzzle in the world, like it caused him nothing but pleasure to complete.

Derek thinks of how maybe the both of them were never really built to be okay, not in the normal sense, but that they make each other better anyway, despite it all. The sheer feeling that Derek has for Stiles buries deep within his heart, clutching at him with determined defiance.

So when Stiles' arms curl around Derek in an embrace and his hands stutter over the skin of Derek’s back and he tucks his head in the crook of Derek’s neck as he begins to cry, great heaving sobs that wrack through his body, Derek holds him all the more tighter and assures him that he’s going to be okay.

There’s no way of telling how long they spend like that, ensconced within each other and seeking comfort in the heat of the other’s skin. Eventually though, Stiles’ hands push Derek off of him and he sighs with a playful huff.

“You’re so heavy.”

Derek leans back in to kiss him one last time before he collapses on his back beside him, “You like it.”

Stiles moves slightly and places his head on Derek’s shoulder, and Derek wraps a hand under him and pulls him closer against him, half on top of him with Stiles' back to his chest, drawing lazy circles with his fingertips on Stiles’ stomach, creating sparks of electricity that fizzle and pop through the man's body as he relaxes into him.

“When was the last time you crashed?” Derek later murmurs into Stiles’ hair, it’s probably insensitive to ask but he needs to know the answer, Stiles twists his head to look at him, eyes red and sore, cool fingers creeping over Derek's.

“A couple of weeks ago,” he admits. “Just after I broke up with Noah.”

Derek tenses and frowns as he remembers the brief period of time when Stiles was in the habit of turning up looking tired and haggard. Although, that was around about the time of their fated kiss and the fall out that came in consequence of that, so Derek had attributed Stiles’ mood to _that_ particular instance. He sighs now, knowing that it was always so much more than it had seemed.

“Derek?” Stiles whispers and he looks a little relieved when Derek looks back at him, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly; his fingers moving to explore Derek’s face, tracing over the deep indent between his brows, scratching through the coarse stubble peppering Derek's jaw, gently smoothing over Derek's eyelids. “I didn’t-" He swallows once, sighs, "I didn’t relapse.”

He averts his eyes then, like he’s embarrassed and he burrows further in closer to Derek. “I went to Jackson’s for the weekend and he made absolutely sure that I didn’t. I can’t- I can’t always be trusted to, to be alone when I’m like that.”

Derek decides to ignore that last statement, if only to appease the uncomfortable squirms that Stiles emits, and makes a note to ask Stiles about that some other time. Instead he casts his memory back to his and Stiles’ first meeting, the very same one that he has gone over and over in his head since, and he looks at Stiles with a raise of an eyebrow. “Jackson who stole your pop tarts that one time?”

Stiles laughs, he squeezes his eyes tight and he throws his head back, his laugh seems much too loud in the quietness but Derek doesn't even begin to care as he smiles at Stiles.

“The one and the same,” Stiles sighs and he turns over onto his stomach, slinking a leg over Derek's before he taps his hand on his chest twice and adopts a mock stern tone, “He paid for that, I assure you.” But then the facade cracks and he smiles, bright and wide, “What can I say? I _hate_ the guy, but he’s my best friend; I can’t get rid of him.”

“That reminds me of Lydia,” Derek says and he hides a smile in Stiles’ hair, then he groans, “Remind me to never, ever let them meet.”

"I don't know," Stiles murmurs. “They might make a good couple actually.”

“Oh god,” Derek balks. “Let’s just –  No. No, that's not a good idea. At all.” 

But he finds himself smiling anyway at the light cadence of Stiles’ laugh.

Derek gathers comfort from the closeness of Stiles; he sweeps his hands in broad strokes up and down the length of the other man’s back, and revels in the small, hushed sounds that tumble from Stiles’ lips.

They wind their bodies together, so close that hardly even a breath passes between them and Stiles hums in contemplation, the vibrations seeping decadence through the mass of Derek’s chest.

“You’re the only one I’ve told about this, you know?” Stiles says, and he’s already slipping into a deep sleep; his mouth hardly moving along with his words as his eyelashes dip low to cast moonlight shadows on the fair blush of his cheeks. “Noah, Scott and Jackson, they already knew, I mean, they _found_ me in the midst of it so there was nothing to tell. But _you_ ; you I trust, Derek.”

Derek is almost sure that Stiles is asleep as he lifts his head and presses a kiss to his forehead but still he says, “I trust you too.”

Stiles’ mouth slips into a sleepy smile, tired and waning in his losing battle with consciousness, but it burns affection into Derek’s heart all the same, and he can’t help it: Stiles smiles and Derek kisses the smile into his memory, a soft collision of lips on gentle lips that lingers even as they both succumb to the honey-sweet scent of sleep. 

-

The days seem to pass a little easier then and Stiles' vitality seems to return with each dawning day, with every single divulged secret. 

It's almost as if he were being weighted down, right at the bottom of the ocean waiting for the inevitable apnea and each revelation, each time he touched a hand to Derek and said, "My withdrawal, it - it lasted for twenty seven days," or "Sometimes I feel so lost, Derek", each and every single time he uttered one of those confessions, it brought him closer to the surface, searching for that one deep, revitalising breath that would assure his survival; bringing him from the brink of that cessation of breathing.  

Derek catches him looking over at him sometimes, with such a look of sincerity and gratitude in his eyes that it almost hurts. They as a unit, as a _relationship_ feels fragile; something to be cherished with a hallowed grace but that’s not to say that tension hasn’t also been fraught.

It _has_ but Derek made sure to soothe those ills with the soft brush of his lips against Stiles and with assurances that he's not going to simply leave.

Saturday rolls around quicker than Derek expected, in a blur of interlacing fingers and a pure extraneous energy bundled up in a curly-haired four year old, the days pass quickly and before he knows it, Derek is parking in front of the Hale house in the morning sun, the cars of his family and friends already littering the yard. 

The house itself is huge, a sprawling mass of a Georgian Mansion cased in pale stone and glinting glass and a sturdy, dark, double oak door with a heavy brass knocker centred in the middle.

Isaac brims with excitement in his bumper in the back seat of the camaro; he sits humming under his breath and swinging from side to side with Wolf at his side. Derek catches his eye in the rear mirror and he smiles.

"Come on, dad," Isaac whines, hands grappling at his cheeks. "I wanna go, I wanna go now!" 

Derek quickly complies with his son’s wishes and Isaac all but throws himself at Derek in his haste to get out of the car, although he knows well enough to hover over by his father’s legs as Derek manoeuvres Wolf out of his seat as well as the provisions he brought over out of the car and into a safe balance in his arms, rather than go wandering off on his own.

Soon enough, Isaac has his hand firmly clasped on the fabric of Derek's jacket as they wander towards the house, the gravel of the drive crunching beneath their feet. Wolf mewls from his nest in the crook of Derek's arm, he belatedly realises that the pup has never actually been there, he’s suddenly quite glad that Wolf still has a cast on; providing limited movement abilities to the pup’s wanderings. 

The atrium is wide and airy, the ceiling reaching high above where the grand staircase rises above in front of them. The staircase tapers off to two balconies on either side, overlooking the entry way, and he spies Lydia moving towards the small library at the end of the second story corridor with a fiery determination, but she doesn’t see them.

Derek heads straight to the kitchen, where the French doors are opened wide to the backyard and food lies on the breakfast table ready to be carted outside. Talia stands at the sink, looking out over the garden, she pauses mid conversation when Derek and Isaac walk in.

She excuses herself on the phone before she turns to them; she’s out of her work clothes, [dressed casually](http://www.thesartorialist.com/photos/on-the-street-beige-brown-rome/) in deep green slacks and a beige shirt as she smiles at them.

“Hello, darling,” she greets Derek, cupping hand to his face before she’s picking up Isaac and kissing his cheek as he throws his arms around her neck and babbles “Mama, I _missed_ you.”

“I missed you too, honey,” she gently assures, laughing and kissing his cheek once more before she points to the phone and gestures to Derek that the phone call will only take a few more minutes, she turns with Isaac expertly propped up on her hip as she continues on her conversation.

Derek places the food he brought alongside the spread on the table before he heads out into the back, Talia’s voice drifting over to him and forming discussions of bonds and financial strategies.

The Hale garden is a brilliantly liminal space, the borderline between civility and nature effectively blurred somewhere amongst the trimmed grass and the dense forestry at the very edges of the garden.

Yellow and pink wildflowers a bloom at the peripheries, just as the grass gets longer, framing the civilised yard in a bordered circle of colour and perfume.

An array of rugs and throws are haphazardly placed around the plush vegetation of the grass, and a long picnic table, large enough to host all fourteen guests, is placed near the patio to the left.

Derek finds that most people are already there, nearly everybody he cares about is revolving around him and it makes something in his chest loosen, a tension that he wasn’t even aware of unfurl into something light and safe.

The sun bears down on them in warm beams and the air is clear and still, scented with the tangy freshness of nature and the sweet aroma of roses and familial bliss.

Alma sits on the[ earth chair](http://cousinstiles.tumblr.com/post/48525489159/youngbadmanbrown-urbanarboriculture-artist) towards the far edge, the one that Robert had slaved over in Derek’s youth, spending years tending to it. She’s engrossed in her book, a hand curled over the [silver sweater](http://images.thesartorialist.com/photos/30511Alex_4002Web.jpg) that curves over her baby bump and her long, shimmering skirt flutters in the gentle breeze. It reminds Derek of Stiles and his books and it makes him smile.

Laura laughs softy in conversation with their Aunt Lissie, as they try to set up the projector over by the edge of the grass to the right, she catches his eye when he walks into the patio and beckons him over. He raises eyes at [her outfit](http://images.thesartorialist.com/thumbnails/2013/06/62213shadows5101web1.jpg), she’s barefoot despite slim fitting black pants and an off-white blouse that plunges at the neckline and she scowls at him.

She pulls him into a hug before she points an accusing finger at him.  

“Shut up,” she admonishes. “Stop judging, I can wear what I want, you freakish brute.”

It says a lot about their relationship that Derek doesn’t even register the insult, archaic as it may be, instead he hooks a finger into the neckline and pulls a little, and scoffs a laugh at how she bats his hands away in annoyance.

“I’m not judging,” he says over his shoulder as he walks over to the patio.

“Yes, you are,” Laura counters. “Your stupid eyebrows are being freaking judgemental!”

Derek's older brother Anthony stands with Boyd at the large stainless steel barbecue on the stone patio. Anthony has a look of intense concentration on his face as he carefully sears the meat, whereas Boyd watches him approach with a quirked brow and he says, “Your eyebrows _are_ pretty judgemental, to be fair.”

Derek glowers at him, and Boyd’s mouth merely slithers into a sly smirk. Anthony looks at Derek briefly with a greeting before he promptly does a double take. “Take that dog the hell away from here.”

“He’s not even doing anything,” Derek complains, instantly affronted. “I’m holding him.”

Anthony sighs with a long weariness that recalls many similar arguments when they were children, Anthony always demanding that Derek drop whatever he was holding near Anthony’s things. But he’s cut short by Isaac’s yelling.

"Papa!" he shouts as he runs down the stairs and across the yard and bodily flings himself at Robert, who is perusing his record collection over by the sound system.

Derek's dad huffs a breath as Isaac collides with him, taking only a second before he's wrapping his arms around Isaac's small frame and he laughs a hello. He rubs his back as they talk and Isaac reaches up to fix Robert's wayward glasses. 

Robert pulls up a hand in greeting towards Derek as Derek places Wolf down, the pup immediately following Isaac's trajectory with a wonky limp, wagging his tail in happiness as Robert pets him. 

Erica comes in from a last minute viewing about half an hour later, ruddy cheeked and bright eyed, her hair falling in soft waves over the rich brown of the [silk shirt](http://www.thesartorialist.com/photos/on-the-street-ada-paris-2/) that she tucked into the heavy white cotton of her skirt.

She kisses Boyd before she snakes one arm around Derek’s waist and the other around Anthony’s, standing between the two of them, her head barely reaching their shoulders, and looking down at the barbecue with a happy disposition.  It doesn’t take too long before she pulls an exaggerated face in Anthony’s direction, he retaliates instantly with something more ridiculous and before Derek knows it, the two are completely engaged in the intense face pulling competition that they had started some five years previously.

Lydia walks past the patio dumping a stack of DVDs on the side table and throws Anthony, who is in the midst of a particularly gravity-defying expression, a thoroughly disapproving look.

“You’re thirty one years old, Ant,” she rolls her eyes. “You’re about to have a _child_ , you should probably start acting like an adult.”

She lifts a silencing hand to Anthony’s sputtering retaliation as she moves over to sit on one of the rugs where his cousin Renée is sitting, Derek watches as they huddle close over one of the books that Lydia had brought over and he smiles despite himself.

Reuben helps his father, Peter, set up the lanterns for later that night around the periphery of the garden but he waves at his cousin when he catches Derek’s eye.

The morning rolls into the afternoon in a flurry of loud overlapping conversations over the lunch table. Derek has missed this, he realises, the easy camaraderie he has amongst his family. He feels safer than he has in a long time, not strictly in the physical sense, but in the fact that he’s not as alone as he previously thought.

Derek sits squished between his mom and his dad whilst Isaac sits on Boyd’s knee on the other side of the table, completely engrossed in a conversation with his Aunt Alma but, more often than not, he looks down the table to Derek with a smile. Time seems seamless at home, even his mom loses that rigid sense of professionalism she usually seems to carry, and she absently pats Derek’s cheek even as she laughs at something Robert's saying on Derek's other side.

The comfort threads around each person like a warm blanket, the laughs and voices of the fourteen present people wafting in the air and bursting above them in a shower of complete myrrh. Erica sits directly in front of Derek, and she kicks him under the table sending his knee crashing into the wooded underside with a loud clatter. Everyone stops and looks over at him, amusement clear across their faces.

Derek narrows his eyes, embarrassment blazing in his cheeks, but Erica merely rolls her eyes and reaches out to grasp Boyd's hand from where he's sitting on her left. 

"Thank you, Derek, for that _fantastic_ silencing method," she drawls, throwing him a pointed look as his cheeks redden further. "But we do actually have something really important to say. You guys know, you're our family. You are. I'm going to be forever grateful to all of you for taking me into your home, _our_ home," she corrects hastily at Talia's stern look. "Even if I did have to put up with Derek and his messiness, his stupid face and his stupid crushes and his even stupider attempts at singing in the shower ... But really, I love you all, Boyd and I _both_ love you all, _seriously_ , and you're really-" 

"We're pregnant," Boyd interrupts, calm demeanour cutting through Erica's passionate speech and the lively, red flush of her cheeks. 

There's a split second of silence as everyone individually processes the information at the same quiet pace. Then there is a loud, screech of a thing from down the table and Lydia yells, " _I knew it!_ " 

Talia is the one who reacts next, throwing her hands up before she smushes them to her cheeks in happiness, sighing a soft _'Oh!'_  as she looks over at Erica, even as the woman in question frowns and slaps her boyfriend's chest. 

"Boyd!" Erica laments. "What the hell? I had a speech all ready for-"

The rest of Erica's words are drowned in the sudden pandemonium that descends upon the table, Derek can hear Laura groan, _"Why the hell didn't you tell me?"_ to Lydia who begins to fervently rehash all of the previous few days' events. Everybody is laughing and congratulating the couple and smiling. 

Everybody, that is, except for Isaac who is propped on Boyd's knee looking around with wide eyed confusion, repeating, "What? What?" 

Reuben leans forward then, reaching across the table and tapping Isaac's hand. 

"They're having a baby," he says. "Erica and Boyd are having a baby." 

 _"A baby?"_ Isaac yells and he freezes, everyone turns to look at him. He looks so damn excited that Derek is sure he's stopped breathing. He beams at Boyd and Erica, before he turns to his father with a wide smile. 

Dessert is a mess of affairs, and sometime in the next hour Isaac slithers off of Boyd's knee, traverses the area beneath the table to emerge, wide eyed and bushy-tailed between Derek's knees. 

He climbs up on Derek's lap with no regards for his father's more _sensitive_ organs. Derek muffles a groan in Isaac's hair when his son's knee collides with his groin, and his cheeks heat up when Alma chokes a laugh into her glass of water. 

He catches her gaze and rolls his eyes, shrugging his shoulders sheepishly. 

Derek and Isaac end up sharing dessert, sour cherry pie and a side order of whipped cream. Isaac manages to get sugar and biscuit crumbs all over his cheeks, like confectionary freckles, Derek doesn't know how he even manages it. 

Some three hours later, Derek basks in the sun, leaning back on one of the rugs and watching Wolf muck around the garden. 

He watches the pup chase around a beam of sunlight that sinks into the green grass with a decadent plunge. Wolf cards his paw through the golden particles and growls deep in his throat, though it comes out more as mewls than anything else. The pup snaps his jaws through nothing, futilely attempting to bite through the beam. 

He eventually gives up rolling around in the grass, placing his paws in front of him and stretching his back, his bottom sticking up in the air as he yawns. Then he saunters back over to Derek, climbing into his lap as Derek curls over him, pressing a kiss to his fur. 

Erica and Boyd lie entangled at his side, they're at one of the rugs towards the back watching Isaac chasing Renée and Reuben around the garden. Boyd nudges Derek’s shoulder.

“Did she tell you?”

“Yeah,” Derek grins and there’s no mistaking the subject with the look on Boyd’s face. “Yeah, she did. Only a couple of days ago though. You excited?”

“Of course man," he beams; it lights up his whole face and Derek nudges him back. 

Peter sets up a basketball net on one side of the garden, and they play a haphazard game, It's more a session of M.O.N.K.E.Y. than it is a real game of basketball and yet they play, Derek feeling completely unbidden, unselfconscious as he runs around on the grass. 

Isaac manages to grab hold of the ball about halfway into the game, and Reuben distracts him for an idle second whilst Anthony surreptitiously lowers the basket. 

When Isaac does throw the ball, jumping up with the force of the momentum on his small body, the ball skirts around the edge of the basket before it falls in. 

The sheer _look_ on Isaac's face makes Derek's heart swell, the feeling pushes and pushes at his chest and he's grasping Isaac by his sides and sweeping him up.

Derek holds him high in the air, upside down with his nose touching Derek's and his legs dangling in the air as they grin at each other.

"I'm so proud of you!" Derek says, beaming at his son, and he brings Isaac down and crushes him to his chest and he can hear Isaac' laugh against his chest. 

Later, Lydia and Laura navigate between the rugs, laughing softly together and handing out glass chalices and champagne, Derek had honestly thought Lydia was joking but clearly she was not. 

Erica is in the middle of a sentence, talking about plans for refurbishing her office when she stops and she looks sharply to the side. 

"Isaac," she yells out to where the little boy is standing on the other side of the garden, with his back towards them. He sheepishly looks over his shoulder. "Get your skinny little butt over here." 

The three of them watch as Isaac approaches, his hands behind his back and his cheeks reddened in guilt. Erica sits up a little from where she was reclining against Boyd's flank. 

She lifts a suspicious brow, "What's that behind your back?"

"Nothing!" Isaac says quickly. "My hand," he shows a palm and then it darts behind his back, where there's clearly a changeover before he then shows his other palm. "My other hand." 

"Hey!" Derek says instantly, his son is damn witty, yes, but Derek really shouldn't feel that proud of Isaac's ability to charm his way out of trouble. "What did I say about lying?"

"But," Isaac says, pushing his curls from his face and and blinking pitifully at Derek. "Daddy, I was only kidding."

"I don't care," Derek says. "Apologise, now." 

"I'm sorry, Aunt Erica," Isaac says and he does look genuinely contrite so Derek decides not to push it but he does stick out a hand, eyebrow lifting in clear expectation. 

Isaac sighs, put upon and resigned, and places a bright red gobstopper in Derek's hand. Then he crosses his arms over his chest, pointedly not looking at Derek's disappointed expression. Isaac had been banned from having gobstoppers the year previously, when he sneaked eating five in a two hour slot, nearly cracking his teeth and going on a sugar rush so high that it tires Derek just _thinking_ about it. 

Erica swiftly takes the gobstopper and places in her mouth, both Derek and Isaac let out a surprised, affronted, "Hey!" 

Though for very different reasons. 

"You've just undermined my authority," Derek hisses. "I hope you're happy." 

"That suggests you had any authority to begin with," Erica breezily replies as Boyd snorts in laughter.  

As the sun sets, stretched orange and red on the horizon, and the lanterns have been lit all around, flickering in a yellow as soft as buttercups, Derek finds himself with a glass half-filled with sparkling gold champagne, a lap full of his son, Wolf had migrated to the warmth between Erica and Boyd an hour previously.

Derek is so lost in thought that it takes a second for him to realise what the steady pressure around his wrist is, he looks down to find Isaac taking big, steady gulps of his champagne. 

Derek takes the glass away and Isaac looks at him, he sees the bewildered expression on his dad's face and begins to laugh and laugh until he hiccoughs a burp. Isaac presses his hands to his lips in surprise before he starts laughing again. 

Derek's worries for a desperate second before Boyd smacks him on the arm.

"It's non-alcoholic," he says with an easy smile as Erica, once again, rolls her eyes at Derek. "It's probably just the bubbles." 

Derek shoots a grateful look at his friend as he relaxes his mind, Isaac's giggling dies down as he leans heavily against Derek's chest. Derek kisses the top of his curls, and he's about to say something, something about his ridiculous friends and his ridiculous son when a sudden hush overcomes the garden; the sounds of the theme tune begin to sound out through air and to the far right, at the front of the garden near the house, the pictures begin flicker on the wide, white square of the projector screen.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that was a long one! I think that that is the longest chapter I've written for this work!  
> The inspiration for Stiles' speech is from Ford Madox Ford again, from this: http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/21592835-parade-s-end-based-on-the-novel  
> 


	15. Better Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had written round about 80% of this chapter, but me being the idiot that I am, I deleted it. All. And I hadn't saved it so I was nearly in tears, guys. 
> 
> This week's song comes from the dulcet tones of Jack Johnson, which. Unf. yes. to everything.

 

[Our dreams and they are made out of real things, like a shoebox of photographs with sepia-toned loving.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yZcWn48GoGw&list=PLgnxrTrD23zQLT9ILLqmwjuXZFWlp1MSr)

-

Derek is nervous.

Derek is so beyond nervous that he thinks this amount of tension deserves a realm of its own. He fidgets in his living room, adjusting things incessantly, because they refuse to sit just right, and he's pretty sure he has adjusted the photo frame on the shelf short of five times but it's _still_ bugging him. 

The photograph is of Isaac's second birthday, he's beaming up at Derek behind the camera, cake all over his fingers and cheeks and coloured sugar sprinkles tangled in his curls. 

Derek resists fixing the frame once more because he knows that it's not the photo frame that has him this worked up, but rather a culmination of everything that this weekend will entail. 

It's the first time, in a very long time, that Derek has been without his son near him. It doesn't matter that a mere ten minutes before, Erica had called for Isaac to say goodnight.

His son had yawned into the telephone, tired due to staying way up past his bedtime, murmuring quietly to his father. Derek had sat on the living room couch and held the phone so damn close to his ear - like he'd be able to teleport himself into that room by sheer power of will. Eventually, Isaac had waved him off, sighing, _"Night, Night, Daddy; Sleep tight,” before_ he had passed the phone to Erica without further ado. 

But Isaac's not _here_ , at home with Derek. It makes him more anxious than he cares to admit.

The astonishing dependency he has on his son's presence rears its ugly head once again - foaming at the mouth, gurgling and boiling with a deep seated fear of everything that could go wrong with Derek not being there. His son is far from being okay, he's hurt and he's scared and he still suffers from night terrors, _damn it_. 

Derek can't shake off the feeling that he needs to be there with him. 

How's Isaac going to react if anything happens and he wakes up and Derek is nowhere to be found? Derek stands stock still in the middle of his living room, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his fingers pressing tight to his mouth if only to dull the need to snatch his car keys and head over to Erica and Boyd's. 

He closes his eyes and he inhales deep, even breaths that card through his veins like long pulls of the ocean. It calms him somewhat, tethers him to the general acceptance of his son's safety. He breathes and he thinks, and he assures himself that Isaac is going to be okay. Derek feels lost without his son, a solitary planet wandering empty spaces without the aid of gravity, and the feeling sits heavily on his chest.

Such as it is, Derek doesn't even hear the knocks on the apartment's front door for a very long while. 

And when the echoes of the second wave of knocks falls into silence, Derek's mind finally slots into place: Stiles. 

Of course, that realisation brings with it the other half of his anxiety about the upcoming weekend; the man waiting on the other side of the door, waiting for _him_  in fact. 

And doesn't that make Derek a nervous wreck. He practically forces himself to start towards the door; he wants this, whatever _this_ is, so much that it scares him and he doesn't know what to do with himself. 

He hasn't done something like this in a long time; the whole business of dating and the simple, expectant situation that he now finds himself in.

Derek unlocks the door with a practiced ease, his mind already whirring in half a dozen different directions, buzzing with excitement and apprehension in equal measures. 

He swings his door open to see Stiles standing there, a perfect facsimile of the nervousness that currently courses through Derek's own skin. 

They stand there for a long time, stupidly long, and they just stare at each other, a look of wonder and hesitant contentment reflected in both their gazes. 

Stiles' cheek are stained red, a deep, pretty colour that echoes the deep rose blush of his lips, parted in a lopsided grin.

He drops the duffle he's holding in one hand to the floor, and the dull thud barely catapults off of the stone tiles before Stiles is stepping forward, wrapping his arms around Derek's neck and claiming his lips for his own. 

Stiles' mouth is just the same as Derek remembers it, warm and sweet and a culmination of everything that Derek could want. 

Stiles tangles his long fingers in Derek's dark hair and slips his tongue into his mouth, sighing into him when Derek wraps his arms around his waist to bring them tightly together. 

The kiss is heated and hard, leaving them breathless when they finally do come apart, lips catching before their tongues slide against each other in a mid-air parting and Stiles grins. 

"You gonna let me in, Derek?" Stiles laughs quietly against his mouth. 

It takes a little while for the words to sink in, and when they do Derek jerks back, wraps his arm firmly around Stiles' waist and bends to pick up the discarded duffel before he herds them in through the door. 

They end up in the kitchen, making dinner for the two of them, and it pleases Derek, the sheer normality of this, how Stiles flits about the kitchen all comfort and expertise. 

They pass the time pretty quietly, the only sounds being Stiles' occasional culinary command and the soft hiss of the stove. Derek waits until he's sure that Stiles won't hurt himself, when he's away from the open fire or he has put his knife down, in order to steal a kiss. 

He can't get enough of Stiles' mouth, of the taste of him, fresh and sharp like apples but warm like coffee. Derek wants nothing but to kiss him all the day long, kiss him deep and breathless as the sun curls from the East to the West. What he loves the most though is the surprised intake of breath that Stiles emits each time their lips touch, like he can't quite realise that he can have this now, like he's surprised by it. And then he smiles and Derek can feel the blunt sharpness of Stiles' teeth pressing against his lips and it makes him shiver with want. 

Stiles looks up with a raised brow as he stirs the risotto on the stove, Derek is standing beside him eyes fixed on Stiles' fingers wrapped around the handle of the spatula.

"You know," he says. "You haven't been actually helping me."

"I've been helping," Derek replies. "I handed you stuff."

"Sure," Stiles rolls his eyes, but there's a tiny quirk of his lips. "But handing me stuff does not constitute the term 'helping', Der." 

"I'll make it up to you later," Derek murmurs and he smirks as Stiles' stirring falters as he gapes at Derek. 

"I - so," his cheeks flush with colour as he stammers. "We're, we're doing the thing?"

Derek manoeuvres an unimpressed look at Stiles, lifting a single eyebrow as the other man's cheeks burn once he realises what he's just said. 

"The thing?" Derek repeats dryly. "Are you seven? We'll definitely not do 'the thing' if you continue to call it that." 

Stiles gets a sly look on his face and Derek instantly regrets saying anything because of course, _of course_ , Stiles is going take every opportunity to call it _the thing_ just to annoy him. 

Derek sighs and moves behind Stiles, dropping his chin on Stiles' shoulder and placing his hands on his hips. 

"We still need to talk," he says after a moment.

Stiles leans back into him and Derek wraps his arms around his torso. 

"I know," he eventually replies, his voice is lower now, much more serious. "After dinner, okay?" 

Derek hums into the fabric of his t-shirt and presses a kiss to the hollow just beneath his ear before he steps back and goes about setting the table. 

The talking part of this situation proves to be harder than what Derek had anticipated; they sit opposite each other on the table, studiously eating their supper and trying to ignore the awkward tension that has descended over them. 

Derek breathes deeply, he's angry for a lot of things, he finds, but mostly he's angry for how Kate's phantom presence remains over them still.  

He's exhausted, and the unfairness of it all seeps into his bones, he feels helpless. He's forever wondering when Kate is going to creep back into his life, whether next time he'll be able to keep he and his son safe. 

Hell, he moved halfway across the country and she's still there; like an immovable being, presiding over his life and his actions. 

Even now, with Stiles here and with him he can still feel the cold slither of doubt clench around his heart; he's waiting for the inevitable, really. When his world will come crashing down around him raining debris and the ashes of his heart. 

Stiles’ fingers run over the raised knobs of Derek’s knuckles, the warmth of his hand settling over Derek. It takes him a moment for the action to register in his mind, another minute still in order for Derek to escape the mad maze of his mind. He eventually drags his eyes up to Stiles.

“Are you okay?” Stiles asks gently, raking his gaze all over Derek’s face.

“Yeah,” Derek says. He shakes his head a little to dispel the dark thoughts swirling in his mind. It’s to no avail but it doesn’t stop him from trying nevertheless. “Yeah, I’m okay. How long was I out?”

“Not too long,” Stiles says but he squints his eyes in worry even despite Derek’s sigh of relief. 

Derek vaguely remembers how, as a child, the only reason for why he would lock himself into his mind was that he was completely immersed in whichever fictional world he’d inhibited. These days, the motive had a much darker purpose.

“You wanna tell me about it?” Stiles asks, shifting so that he’s clasping Derek’s hand, fingers fitting into the warm palm of Derek’s hand.

Derek smoothes his thumb over the back of Stiles’ knuckles, a repetitive movement that despite it all, brings him comfort.

“Not really.”

Stiles sighs, their supper lying forgotten between them, it doesn’t matter anyway, Derek thinks, his has surely gone cold by now and he’s lost any of the appetite he'd previously possessed.

“Derek-”

“You read the report,” Derek snaps, and it tumbles out of his mouth full of bitterness and shame. “You know what happened.”

“Reading a report is not the same as knowing what happened, Derek,” Stiles says and fingers tighten in reassurance against Derek’s hand. “Or _understanding_ what happened. You know that.”

The worst thing is that Derek _does_ know. The police report is merely a list, a list comprised of facts; a cold, blank, impersonal jumble of letters that blare about the horrors of the broken life of Derek Hale.

Derek didn’t even mention everything in the report, of course he didn’t. He kept so many things to himself, kept safe in the confinements of his heart despite the fact that it poisons him with every beat of it; the shame hanging heavy like black tar in his blood.

“Why do you need to understand?” Derek asks, and he refuses to acknowledge the pleading tone of his voice. “Is it even that honestly important?”

“Is it even…?” Stiles’ words falter with his disbelief. He leans forward in his chair, squeezing Derek’s hand. “Of course it’s important, Derek. I'd like to understand, and if we’re going to do this - then I _need_ to understand because I don’t want to hurt you.”

Derek takes a deep breath, “Fine," he concedes tightly. "But if I'm telling you, then you're telling your father about your own problems too.”

Stiles stares at him, surprised incredulity etched all over his expression. He tries to tug his hand from Derek’s but Derek holds steady, “No.”

Derek leans back in his chair and raises a brow, “Exactly.”

"Oh, that is _completely_ different," Stiles says and he finally snatches his hand away from Derek’s. “I’m trying to _protect_ you, Derek. Seeing what you went through last time wasn’t exactly easy for me you know.”

“Yeah, because it was so easy for me, right?” Derek drawls.

“That's not what I meant,” Stiles hisses. “And you’re deflecting.”

“I’m not deflecting,” Derek seethes. “There is nothing to deflect because this, _this,_ is exactly what I’m talking about, Stiles. You can’t ask me to do something when you are avoiding it too.”

Stiles huffs out a breath and his nostrils flair in vexation. “You and I both know exactly what this would do to my dad if he knew,” he says through gritted teeth. “And I’m _not_ doing that to him.”

“The reason that you don’t want to tell your dad is the same reason I don’t want to tell you,” Derek says, voice is hard and angry.

“It’s a completely different situation-”

“It’s the same _damn_ thing, Stiles,” Derek snaps, the words burst from his lips like a geyser, with barely concealed anger broiling low in his gut. “Don’t pretend otherwise.”

He pushes his plate away from him, the porcelain scrapping across the table top in a loud grating noise. Derek places his elbows on the surface and drops his face into his hands.

The hostility is a palpable thing within the tableaux they present, angry and hurt. Stiles crosses his arms tightly over his chest and turns his face away. 

The apartment buzzes quietly around them. They’re so close together, their knees touching beneath the table, from where Stiles had slotted his knee between Derek’s at the start of their supper, but the tension is so fraught between them that there might as well be an entire ocean separating them, the space stretching wide and painful.

Derek breathes deep into the concave warmth of his palms, then he presses his fingers to his lips as he sighs deep. He hadn’t wanted to rehash this argument with Stiles, not now or ever again. He just wishes that he could lock everything that happened in that disastrous relationship somewhere deep inside himself, somewhere even his own conscience couldn’t get to.

He’s the first to break the silence, surprisingly. He watches Stiles press his lips into a tight line, cheeks flushed red and chest heaving with the weight of his anger and Derek decides that he just needs to ask.

He doesn’t want to  but he _needs_ to. The question has been burning in his mind for days, and he knows that he needs to ask it now because if he doesn’t, he might not find the courage once again to ask.

Not that he’s encouraged now that is, he feels nervousness begin to circulate his body and he licks his lips, heart palpitating in his chest. He fixes his gaze a little way off to the side of Stiles, takes a deep breath and he starts speaking before he can back out of it.

“You, uh,” he falters, catches sight of Stiles turning his head towards him in his periphery. “You said-. The other night you said that when, when you crash. That you can’t always be truste-.” Derek’s words weaken and break off into silence when he looks up and sees the confusion in Stiles’ eyes give way to a dawning realisation, right before a startled hurt begins to bloom in his eyes.

Derek’s heart clenches as he watches Stiles blink the sting of tears in his eyes away. He bites his lip hard, blood rushing beneath the skin as he stares disbelievingly at Derek.

“I-I’m not going to hurt him, Derek,” Stiles says, and his voice is barely more than a shocked utterance, the words scraping against the inside of his throat. “I _wouldn’t_.”

“I know,” Derek says quietly, even though he doesm't really, even though he's wishing desperately that he could take the words back, rephrase them in a way that sound less accusing; wanting nothing more than to wipe that look of utter devastation off of Stiles’ face.

“ _But?_ ”

“But if there is a possibility, then I need to know,” Derek says, he shrugs helplessly. “He’s my _son_ , Stiles.”

The tension remains in the straight, rigid lines of Stiles’ shoulders. Derek watches him breathe heavily for a long while; he’s almost motionless except for the way that his throat works in an attempt to sort out through the mess in his head.

“It’s not,” Stiles stops, takes a deep breath, lick his lips and blinks his tears away before he tries to speak again. “It’s not what you think. I wouldn’t hurt anybody. It’s. When I’m like that, I would do _almost anything_ to have it back again. I’m more likely to relapse when I’m like that. That’s all.”

Derek sighs in relief, he doesn’t think that Stiles would hurt Isaac, intentionally or otherwise, but it never hurts to be sure. And, he reminds himself with a cold churning of his stomach, it’s not like he hasn’t been wrong before.

Derek stands up abruptly, pushing his chair backwards. He feels awful for the way that Stiles jerks towards him, how his hands reaching towards Derek but hesitating in mid air and theway that his mouth drops open, like he wants to plead Derek to stay but the words get stuck in his throat.

He need not have worried though, because Derek reaches out towards him, clasping his hand in his, and he says, “Let’s just go to bed.”

The relief that washes through Stiles’ expression settles a warm feeling in Derek’s stomach and he’s reminded once again how much he cares for him.

Derek curls around Stiles when they get to bed, sharing their warmth with each other. Stiles runs his thumb through the coarse hair on Derek’s forearm, lying in quiet contemplation. The last of their anger drifted away into the night by the time that Stiles slid into the comfort of Derek’s arms.

He counts seventy-six breaths in the rise and fall of Stiles’ chest against the palm of hand before he find the courage to admit what he wants to say. Derek wants to share a part of himself with Stiles; he can see now how he needs to trust the other man too. He can’t spill everything quite just yet; he’s much too ingrained in the art of keeping things to himself to snap out of it so suddenly.

“She said I was hers,” Derek says, his voice is much too loud in his ears, he knows that Stiles heard ftom the way that he tenses against him.

It’s frightening how he can’t snatch the words back, make them unheard. His heart beats hard against his chest; he’s sure that Stiles can feel it but now all he can do is close his eyes and hide his face in the crook of Stiles’ neck.

Stiles doesn’t say anything for a long time, and for that Derek is actually kind of glad. It lifts a small weight off of Derek’s chest without the necessity of retribution. It’s not much, but it’s a start.

“People don’t belong to people,” Stiles says and his voice is soft and wistful, like he’s reciting something that he'd long forgotten. “We belong to nobody, and nobody belongs to us. We don’t even belong to each other.”

“What’s that from?”

Derek can _feel_ Stiles’ smile, the way that happiness washes over him in a warm rush. He turns slightly and briefly presses a hand to Derek’s cheek.

“Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” Stiles says and he grins. “My mom was mad about Truman Capote.”

Derek presses his forehead against Stiles’ temple and kisses the corner of his mouth, “Tell me about her.”

And Stiles does.

-

Derek awakes when the bright glare of the sun creeps over the horizon. He’s lying on his back, the sheets pooled in a mess around his waist. Stiles lies sprawled on his stomach to his right, one hand tucked into the space between the mattress and the headboard and the other arm dangling over the edge of the bed, a knee tucked in close to his elbow.

Derek rolls his eyes and gets up; he’s long foregone questioning Stiles’ weirdness.

They had stayed up late the night before and conversation had given way to serious discussion of Derek’s boundaries, assurances that they had both been tested and proved healthy and what Derek would be comfortable with in bed.

To be honest, Derek had sighed, running a hand over his face, as long as they stayed far away from his disastrous times with Kate he’d be more than happy. But Stiles had insisted on discussing, suggesting every sexual act he could think of in order for Derek to determine what would and wouldn't be okay.

And amongst Stiles’ laughing at Derek’s expression, as he explained what some of the acts were, Derek could clearly see the underlying concern beneath. He knew that Stiles’ mind was working desperately, trying to piece together what had happened through the miniscule amounts of information that Derek offered him.

But despite the multitude of questions burning in his expression, he never asked, he gave Derek _space_.

Derek yawns as he heads towards the kitchen from the bathroom, fully intending on starting breakfast, blearily working to get the utensils and the ingredients out as quietly as he can.

Stiles ambles into the kitchen shortly thereafter, fine lines crisscrossing his cheeks, hair standing up on end, clad only in his boxers and absently scratching his side as he shuffles towards where Derek stands scrambling eggs at the stovetop.

Stiles wraps his arms around Derek’s body, melting against his back. He hums as he smushes his face into the nape of Derek’s neck, breathing in deeply before he sighs with contentment.

“Morning, Stiles,” Derek greets, not even trying to stop the grin that plasters itself all over his expression.

“Mornin’ Der,” Stiles mumbles and Derek wonders if Stiles is actually fully awake, he guesses _not entirely_ by the way that he snuffles into Derek’s skin. “I need a shower.”

“You need to brush your teeth,” Derek harrumphs, throwing a look over his shoulder and meeting a distinctly unamused, bleary glare from Stiles.

“Rude,” he mutters.

“Your breath could probably wake the dead,” Derek tells him, but he smiles and kisses him good morning anyway, before he turns back to the stove.

Stiles leans his cheek on Derek’s shoulder, blinking a few times as his hands stroke up and down Derek’s belly before he says, “Can I wash you?”

“Can you _what_?”

"Wash you," Stiles rolls his eyes. “For the shower, Hale. Keep up.”

And he steps away with a smack to Derek’s ass, trundling over to the fridge.

Derek looks up about a minute later and sees that Stiles is stood in front of the open refrigerator, staring at its contents with determined conviction and a confused frown, like he’s forgotten why he’s standing there.

Derek watches him for another minute longer but when it’s clear that Stiles won’t be moving he clears his throat, “ _Coffee_ , Stiles.”

Stiles snaps his fingers and points to Derek, nodding in gratitude.

He closes the fridge after a long moment spent searching its contents and he begins to cross over to the machine, only to stop halfway, turn on his heel before he hurries back to the fridge muttering, “forgot the milk,” under his breath in flustered embarrassment.

Derek snorts a laugh when he goes past and Stiles flips him off without even bothering to turn around.

“ _Classy_ , Stilinski.”

Stiles eventually manages to drag Derek to the bathroom after they’ve had breakfast and Stiles is relatively awake. Threading his fingers through Derek’s and leaning against his shoulder as they wait for the water to heat up.

Stiles gets in the shower first and Derek is instantly distracted by the sight of Stiles under the spray, his head tilted up towards the jet, and the water droplets running down the taught skin of his throat.

Then he turns around and Derek loses all ability to function, doomed only to the fate of watching as the water cascades over Stiles’ hair, turning it a dense, dark colour before it runs clear over the line of his back over the curve of his ass and down the definition of his legs.

Stiles throws a look over his shoulder at Derek, grinning widely, “Planning to join me anytime soon, Derek?”

Derek scrambles to comply, wanting to touch the heat of Stiles’ skin, taste the water as it glances off of him.

Stiles turns back around when Derek hops into the tub, wrapping his arms around Derek’s waist and pressing him in close under the spray, he ducks his head to kiss at Derek’s shoulder and he sighs.

They stand like that for a long time, completely entwined with each other under the hot flow of water. Derek’s already aroused, lust for the man in front of him pooling low and loose in the pit of his stomach as he laps at Stiles’ throat, tasting him, savouring him.

For long moments, only the steady sound of the trickling water and the soft, quiet moans from Stiles, as he tips his head back to allow Derek more room to kiss and bite at his flushed skin, ricochets off the tiles in the bathroom.

Stiles shivers then; one long, heady ripple from the top of his head to the tips of his toes and he steps back. He washes himself in quick, economical swipes, his body moving with an instinctual sort of elegance and Derek leans back against the tile, palming his dick as he watches him.

When Stiles is finally done with himself, he manoeuvres Derek so that he’s standing under the spray and turns him around. Stiles grabs the shower gel, lathering up his hands before he places hot palms on the muscle of Derek’s back. 

Derek can’t help but sigh into the touch, allowing his head to droop forward when Stiles begins to knead the tense muscles, sudsy fingers sinking deep into the cords of his shoulders, delving between the knobs of his spine and the backs of his arms. All of this before he moves downwards to wash the skin of Derek’s back in slow, wide interweaving circles, the heat of Stiles enveloping Derek so thoroughly that it makes him lightheaded for a second. He can feel Stiles' breath ghosting over his skin and it makes him shiver.

Derek can’t remember the last time he’s had something like this, something so undeniably intimate but so innocent in its motives that it lightens the weight in his heart.

Stiles turns Derek back towards him again before he reaches back for the gel. When he presses his hand on Derek’s skin this time, a small smile plays on his lips, like he knows precisely how he affects him, and he looks up at Derek from beneath his lowered lashes, he's so _gorgeous_ that Derek can’t help but lean forward and kiss him.

Stiles’ hands don’t stop as they kiss, his hands work over the slick surface of Derek’s skin, over and over again, reaching low down to his hips, fitting between the divots of Derek's muscles, teasing over the trail of hair beneath his navel before working up to his chest.

It’s driving him crazy, a slow burning heat that inches across his skin like lava, he feels it lingering in the air as their lips part. Stiles circles his nipples with the tips of his fingers until Derek is sure that he’s going to collapse, he can feel Stiles’ erection pressing tight against his hip and he knows that if he manoeuvres himself just slightly, they can align themselves and grind away to Derek’s heart’s content.

But he doesn’t move a single inch, pinned down by Stiles’ gaze and the man smirks, before he slowly sinks down to his knees.

Derek’s mind overloads with the image, a moan of satisfaction slips past his lips unbidden as he stares down at Stiles, his cheeks flushing red and his breaths coming in heavy pants.

Stiles laughs a little when he glances up, blinking against the onslaught of water droplets falling on his face but he resolutely ignores Derek’s dick where it’s hanging at his eye level, flushed red at the tip and throbbing against the water current sliding all over it, Derek almost wants to plead for Stiles to do something, _anything_.

Stiles meanwhile, washes Derek’s legs with a stunning amount of care, fingers smoothing over the arches of each foot, running through the coarse hair on Derek’s calves and rubbing small circles of pressure on the smooth skin at the backs of his knees, little things that nearly have Derek crashing down to the ground.

When he reaches Derek’s thighs, his hands slow down to paced, indulgent strokes on the delicate skin and his eyes focus solely on Derek’s dick, watching it with avid craving, licking his lips almost subconsciously. Derek can do nothing but simply watch, hands hanging idly by his sides and heart in his throat, as Stiles’ gaze sweeps up the length of him. He leans forward, enveloping one of Derek’s balls in the warm heat of his mouth.

Derek's head drops back and a long sighing hiss falling from his lips. He shuts his eyes and groans deep when Stiles gently tugs the other ball into his mouth, rolling the heavy weight of it on the smoothness of his tongue, Derek looks back down to him as he’s pulling off, sucking so that the sac tumbles from his lips with a wet smack, and he grins mischievously at Derek.

“Jesus, Stiles,” Derek mutters, he can’t believe that this is happening to him; that he’s _this_ worked up and Stiles’ mouth has hardly been on him. But he supposes that this has been a long time coming, and the anticipation of them together pounds in blood. Derek moves his hand to smear his thumb across Stiles’ lips, cups his face and presses his thumb in the hollow of his cheek.

His mouth opens immediately, smiling eyes locked firmly on Derek as he wraps his lips around him.

Derek stands mesmerised by the sight of his cock disappearing between Stiles’ lips, the wet heat that surrounds him is almost unbearable, with the hot water running down his back and the vaporous steam curling around them, and it’s almost too much.

He closes his eyes again and his mind focuses only on the wet, slurping suction of Stiles’ mouth and the calming pressure of Stiles' hands roaming all over his skin.

Stiles pulls off with a parting swipe of his tongue, wrapping fingers around Derek’s cock and moving in hard, tight and twisting motions of his hands up and down the length of his shaft, whilst the fingers of his other hands creep around the curve of Derek’s ass to settle against his hole.

Derek starts a little, and moans through gritted teeth, scrunching his eyes tightly as Stiles speeds up the motions of his hand, moving faster and faster until Derek can’t stand it anymore and he comes; orgasm curling around the edges of his body, it simpers in the heat there, waiting blurred and ready in the periphery, before it rushes towards the centre of him in a powerful surge, like that of a crashing wave and he spills, hard and fast, all over Stiles’ chest.

Derek hangs his head and licks his lips, chest heaving as he sighs deep and sated, “ _Fuck_.”

-

They’re barely dry by the time that they tumble into the messy sheets of the bed, Stiles slinking over Derek's body to cradle his face and kiss his lips, slipping his tongue into Derek’s mouth and humming deep into the warm of him.

“Condom,” Derek murmurs into his lips, softly tapping the muscle of Stiles' ass. “And lube, c'mon, quick.”

Stiles parts from his lips and sits up, head twisting from side to side as he tries to locate his bag, sending droplets of water flying everywhere. He finally spots his bag to the far side of the bed where he had dumped it the night before and he scrambles over, hanging off of the side as he tries to grasp the handle.

His ass hangs high in the air as he tries to reach it and Derek can’t resist, he pinches the skin just below Stiles’ butt and nearly dies laughing when Stiles’ yelps in surprise and loses his balance, nearly face-planting the floor, where he lands in a heap.

He throws a look over his shoulder at Derek, eyes narrowed, “You’re a real douchebag, you know that?”

But all it does is set Derek off again, eyes scrunched tight even as Stiles gets back on the bed. Derek swings over and lays his body over Stiles’, smiling, “You’re an idiot.”

He kisses Stiles then, long and slow, coats his fingers with the lube and presses in the waiting heat of Stiles body as he spreads his legs further and tightens his arms around Derek’s neck, seeming to soften into the sheets.

Stiles groans softly as he bites into Derek’s bottom lip when Derek adds a second finger, stretching him out gently with the sides of his digits, spreading them evenly and steadily.

By the time Derek adds in a third finger, twisting them smoothly as he thrusts, Stiles is arching against his body, a crease between his brows accompanying the red tint to his cheeks as he pants out his breaths, rocking down onto Derek's fingers.

Derek turns him around the second he’s fully hard again; taking the time to kiss the length of his spine as Stiles spreads his legs and tilts his hips up, not wanting to waste another moment.

Derek watches him, heatedly, as his ass twitches in the air, thrusting at nothing in particular as he waits for Derek to finish rolling on the condom and slicking himself.

He nudges himself against Stiles’ hole, and he watches how the morning sun glints off Stiles’ fair complexion, sunlight crafting beams of radiance that shimmer across his back with each movement. Derek watches entranced as Stiles, grumbles in impatience and places his cheek against the sheets as he reaches back to grab a hold of Derek’s cock himself.

Stiles aligns it with himself and shuffles back a few paces before he sinks himself down, until his ass rests against Derek's hips, biting hard his lip as they both moan at the feeling.

Derek can’t take his eyes away from the shift of Stiles’ shoulder blades, the way that his spine moves beneath his skin, or the contrast between his and Stiles’ skintone, and Stiles tilts his ass so that it brushes up Derek’s thighs, spreading him open on Derek’s cock with each thrust, panting in short little breaths.

He groans deeply when Derek finally grasps his hips and pushes forward, his mouth drops open in surprise and his eyes flicker open to find Derek's gaze for a second as he starts to fuck him. Stiles closes his eyes once more, wrapping his fists on the sheets, grunting soft noises of breathlessness with each hard thrust of Derek’s hips.

Derek buries himself in Stiles, moving along with the slick momentum of thrusting in and out of him, and he begins to move faster and faster, in absolute need for Stiles’ heat. So he pumps and he thrusts and he grinds, aided only by the sharp sound of skin on skin, the wet noises of the lube and Stiles’ mumbling groans.

He drapes himself over Stiles, and wraps a hand around his dick, wet with the accumulation of pre-come and he pumps, hard and fast until Stiles comes with a breathless gasp, eyes squeezing shut and teeth biting down hard on the sheets beneath him; Derek follows not a mere three thrusts later, with slick heat pulsing around him and the image of Stiles biting down in ecstasy burned into his memory.

Stiles collapses on the bed as soon as Derek pulls out, sighing deeply into the sheets as Derek ties off the condom and puts it in the trash bin by the side of the bed. He lies down half on top of Stiles’ flushed body, it’s too warm but he’s too comfortable to care.

He’s nearly asleep when Stiles’ slurred mumbling reaches his ears, his face pressed deep into the mattress and his voice drifting off into slumber.

“We did it Derek,” he mutters. “We did the thing,” and he waves his hand in mock cheer as Derek snorts with incredulous laughter above him. 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wrote smut. Like full, in detail super smut for the first time ever.
> 
> This is stupid omg I can't write smut for shit, you guys! Haha! But I tried at least, practice makes perfect right? :) 
> 
> Sayonara guys, 'till the next week!


	16. Heart of Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I swear to everything that is good and holy, this chapter had a plot. It did. It really did, but then: smut.  
> Omg. Have you guys seen that Sterek Opening Credits vid on youtube? Um. Wow. I watched like 3 times in a row and then I was like WHYDON'TWEHAVENICETHINGS! Seriously, watch it: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wAJ1bkihtbM - whomever did this has taaalent!  
> This week's song is one that I've loved for forever, it's by Green River Ordinance, one of the few bands that survived my transition from my fifteen year old self to my seventeen year old self.

[  
You know I need you I can't take it any longer. I'm without you but it's clear that you belong here.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uKqXk_qXpZg&list=PLgnxrTrD23zQLT9ILLqmwjuXZFWlp1MSr&index=20)

-

Derek feels the precise moment that Stiles begins to wake up.

He's curled up in front of him, facing away from Derek on top of the covers, limbs akimbo.

Derek finds equanimity in runing his knuckles over the delicate knobs of Stiles' spine; up and down, in slow, tumbling movements, guiding Stiles into consciousness with the grounding presence of his touch. 

When Stiles awakens fully, he tenses for a second before he stretches, reaching his arms high above his head and pointing his toes, a soft groan escaping his lips. 

Derek curls a hand over his waist as Stiles turns and falls on his back to look up at where Derek's face hovers above his, and he smiles, sleepy and mischievous. 

"Were you watching me sleep?" Stiles asks, lifting an eyebrow. 

"I've only been awake for a little bit," Derek grouches, not entirely denying it as he frowns, but there's a smile tugging at his lips. 

"Aha, so you _were_ watching me!" Stiles grins drowsily as Derek tucks his head to fit beneath Stiles' jaw, placing a brief kiss there.

"I _knew_ it!" Stiles is saying and he sighs, "My very own creeper."

Derek huffs a laugh against his collarbones and pulls him closer as Stiles begins to drag his fingers through his hair in a slow, even rhythm. They stay like that, locked in comfort, or a long time before Stiles breaks the silence.

"Don't tell me we slept through the whole day," he murmurs. "Is it too late to start round two?" 

Derek lifts his head to peer at Stiles face, he sees the hopeful look on his face and his eyes drift to settle on Stiles' lips. 

"It's never too late for you," Derek says. They'd only fallen asleep for an hour or thereabouts, so as far as Derek is concerned, they have all the time in the world. 

Stiles surges up and flips them over, clambering over Derek to straddle his thighs and ghost his lips over his mouth. 

"You're such a sap," he mumbles but he's smiling and nudging at Derek's nose to tilt his head back. 

Stiles' mouth is warm and wet over his, and he braces his forearms on either side of Derek's head, shifting a little to fit himself better against Derek as he slips his tongue into his mouth and hums, deep in his chest. 

He bows the curve of his back as he begins to move, shuddering as he rocks in short, undulating waves and sighs into the heat of Derek's mouth, situating himself against Derek's crotch again and again.

Stiles smells like Derek's shower gel, like mint and the fresh scent of water, and his skin is so smooth against Derek, sleep soft and warm to the touch. 

Derek rolls his hips up once, and he does it again and _just_ _once more,_ because he can't quite resist the chance to hear the hitch of breath at the base of Stiles' throat. He skirts his hands down Stiles' sides to rest at his ass, kneading the muscle there before he pulls the cheeks apart with his fingers. 

Stiles jumps against Derek, choking against a moan as the cool air curls over the sensitivity of his exposed hole before he begins to grind down against him. 

Derek becomes fully hard somewhere around Stiles' fifteenth biting kiss; Stiles puts expert care into his kissing of Derek: gentle nips at Derek's top lip, heady sucking of his tongue, small, hot licks at the crevice corner of Derek's mouth, teeth running along his bottom lip ... and all of a sudden Derek is hissing stuttered breaths with each drag of Stiles' cock against his. 

Stiles draw his mouth away from Derek eventually, slowly, with his lips tumbling over Derek's cheek and dragging to settle on his throat. Stiles' hand clamps on one side of Derek's waist, on the other side to that of his scars, and uses the grip as leverage to grind down harder against Derek. 

He pants, hot, wet breaths that vapourise against Derek's neck, where his lips are pressed against the skin as he shudders through each frantic drag of their cocks.  

Derek shuts his eyes tight as he gasps and curses as often as his voice tumbles over the rough, broken approximations of Stiles' name.

The head of Stiles' dick drags sloppily against his, and Stiles' balls are a heavy, warm weight against his, both sets slapping softly against each other with each writhe of their hips.

Derek doesn't want it to be over so soon though, he has other plans for them this time around, so he shifts his hands to Stiles' hips, pressing his fingers into the soft give of the skin, and he concentrates.

He can feel the hard beats of Stiles' heart, hammering against his own chest like the fleet of a thousand doves; he can hear Stiles moan and bite and slobber out nonsense words against Derek's skin as he rolls his hips, growing louder and louder as he nears his climax.

Stiles' hand moves from Derek's waist, sliding in rough movements through the mist of sweat on Derek's chest up to his neck, gripping where Derek's neck meets his shoulder for dear sweet life, pressing himself ever closer to Derek. 

Stiles gasps into Derek's throat, teeth biting into his skin with his mouth hanging open as it is, and he moves his hips to grind in juddering, hard movements against him. 

Derek can hear the scrape of Stiles' fingers on the sheets as his other hand fists in the tangle of material beside his head, he can hear the chocked off words and sounds that tumble from Stiles' lips and seep into his skin. 

Derek can tell when Stiles is getting close, his whole body vibrates against Derek, his body slick with perspiration. Derek grits his teeth against the waves and waves of gratification flowing through his own body like liquid happiness. 

He feels exactly when Stiles is about to come, he hears the soft hitch of expectant breath and the tightening of Stiles' thighs against his. 

So Derek grips his hips and before Stiles can take that one last roll of his hips, that final movement to bring him straight over that sharp, victorious edge, Derek tightens his hold and he lifts.

Stiles gasps, his surprise palpable in the startled jerk of his body and the great shuddering breath of _"Fuck,"_ near yelled into Derek's neck. 

His fingers briefly tighten against Derek's shoulder and his other hand slaps against the sheets as he groans in dissatisfaction; he slumps the top half of his body against Derek, shaking a little and breathing heavily as he tries to catch his breath. 

Derek presses placating, _apologising_ kisses on the line of Stiles' shoulder, the only part of him that his lips can reach.

He keeps a firm hold on Stiles' hips until he's absolutely sure that the urgent need to come has passed for the both of them before he gently tips them over, crawling in the space between Stiles' legs to surge up the length of his body and kiss his mouth. 

"You're an asshole," Stiles groans, pushing feebly at Derek's chest. He opens his eyes, watching Derek with heavy lids, chagrined amusement on his face as he licks his lips. "You are the biggest asshole to ever asshole, Derek Hale." 

Derek laughs, smiling beatifically down at Stiles. 

"I'm sorry," he says and he leans over and presses another gentle kiss to his slack mouth. 

"Asshole," Stiles whispers, shaking his head a little and smudging his lips all over Derek's. "You're an _awful_ person." 

"I know," he murmurs, and he can't help the playful smirk that lifts his lips. "It really keeps me up at night."

Stiles rolls his eyes, pushing gently at Derek's face, "What the hell was that for?" 

"I told you that I was going to make up for not helping you out for dinner, so I'm going to make it up for you," Derek says, eyes roaming over Stiles face, loitering carelessly at his lips. "We were getting a little hasty and I don't want it to be over so soon." 

Stiles' eyes widen a little in surprise, his pupils dilating and almost entirely engulfing the honey-brown beauty of his eyes. 

"So, so this morning," he hedges, throat clicking as he swallows and licks his lips tentatively. "That _wasn't_ the making up?" 

Derek smirks, leaning in close to brush his lips against Stiles' mouth, "Not even close."

Derek grabs hold of Stiles' hips and tugs him a few inches down the bed, to fit snugly across Derek's braced thighs, Stiles draws a sharp breath in surprise, his hands falling into loose fists beside his head, his mouth falling open. 

But his eyes though, his eyes never once leave Derek's, golden irises that shimmer in the sunlight and follow Derek's every move. Derek can't resist, he leans in closer to taste his lips again. 

"I'm going to make you feel so good, Stiles," he murmurs against his mouth. "It's going to be _so_ good." 

"It was already feeling good," Stiles grumbles and he rolls his eyes. "But then you had to go and ruin it, like the ruiner that you are. Ruiner." 

"You ever going to let that go?" 

"Nope," Stiles grins, wrapping his arms around Derek's neck and surging up to press hard kisses against his mouth between each word, "Never, ever, ever." 

"Okay, okay,” Derek laughs. “But it'll be so amazing, Stiles. You'll see," Derek presses him down into the wielding comfort of the mattress. "Just let me enjoy this," he says. 

He breaks away from Stiles' kiss to drag his lips down the side of his throat, bringing up a hand to fit around his neck, fingers in a line on the nape of his neck and thumb pressing at the hard line of Stiles' jaw as he tips his head back. 

Derek hums in contentment, he's been wanting to do this for a long, _long_ time, he dips his tongue into the hollow between Stiles' collarbones, drags his tongue in a wide swathe over the line of his throat, tumbling over his Adam's apple, over the underside of his jaw and flicks off at the edge of his chin.

He can feel the vibrations of Stiles' breathless, _'oh my god, Derek,'_ share space on his tongue alongside the sharp salt of Stiles' skin. 

He rakes his teeth against Stiles' collarbones before he kisses a path down to his nipple, curling his tongue around it to guide it into his mouth; he smiles, feeling Stiles buck up into his stomach. 

He scrapes his teeth against the bud as he lifts his head up, Stiles' body arches up with him; sweat slicked hands scrabbling against the headboard, as Derek pulls on the nipple with his teeth and his lips. 

He chuckles, as he moves on to the other nipple, just at seeing the look of intensity rippling through Stiles' expression. 

Derek presses sweet, chaste lips on Stiles' belly, following the trail of brown moles on his skin, and places a garland of open mouthed kisses from one hip to the other before he lifts up to grab the lube bottle from earlier that morning. 

He dribbles the cool gel over his fingers, smothering the viscosity of it between his digits to warm it up as his eyes fall on Stiles. 

He's breathing heavily on the mess of Derek's white sheets, arms spread on either side of him and his legs falling open in a loose circle around Derek. 

His pale skin is flushed a deep pink and he has eyes only for Derek, only for his face. 

Derek leans over and braces one hand firmly on the bed and the other, slicked with lubricant, hovers just beyond Stiles' hole. 

"You ready?" Derek asks softy, looking up at Stiles. 

He nods jerkily, swallowing hard as his gaze trails over to Derek's fingers. 

Derek wastes no time in circling Stiles' hole with his fingertips, Stiles is more than likely still halfway-prepared from earlier that morning but Derek doesn't want to hurt him, so he takes precaution.  

He plants a calming kiss on Stiles' hip bone as he presses in with a finger. 

He hears Stiles' intake of breath up above him, feels him squeeze tight around his finger and sigh as his spine slowly elevates off of the bed. 

He's still wet and a little loose, so Derek's finger slides straight in, smooth and easy, and it allows a little movement. But Stiles' whole body remains tight and tense in being denied a release mere minutes before, so Derek manoeuvres himself so that he can slide a hand over Stiles' chest and gently kneads relaxation into his skin. 

It's not before too long that Derek is able to slide his finger out and press back in with two. 

"Oh, shit," Stiles says and he throws an arm across his face, chest heaving with each laboured breath. "Fuck,  _yeah_." 

The fit is a little more snug this time, but Derek likes it better this way, so he takes his time, spreading his fingers inside of Stiles, circling the heat of him, moving so as to keep the burn of the stretch just short of painful. 

It's a thing of beauty when Derek slides in a third finger into Stiles, his breath begins to grow shorter and faster and he moves his hips in brief serpentine waves; fucking deep into himself on Derek's fingers like he just can't help himself. 

The heels of his feet dig into the sheets, and he hefts himself up a little way off the bed to better push himself against Derek, heaving heavy breaths into the damp crook of his elbow. 

It's only when his other hand moves, creeping towards his cock, lying hard and full against his stomach, that Derek pulls his fingers out, pushing Stiles' wrist away, kissing his stomach when he hears the low grievance of dissent from Stiles.

"Let me," Derek murmurs, shifting himself so that his un-lubed hand wraps around Stiles' dick. 

Stiles' arm drops away from his face, and he looks down at where Derek is positioning himself.

Derek looks up at him briefly, his own breath heavy and hard as he watches Stiles and he looks absolutely shattered; his mouth hangs slack and open, his eyes dark and his cheeks raging red, the colour spilling over his throat and flooding his chest. 

Derek kisses the top of Stiles' cock, lips slipping over the smooth curve of the head, tongue slipping into the wet slit as his hand pumps it slowly from base to tip in an even rhythm, smooth and steady, before he runs the pads of his fingers over the velvet-soft blush-red of the tip. 

Derek leans forward and takes it into his mouth again, he only wants a taste for now, there’ll be plenty of time for this some other time.

But now, despite the fact that he relishes in the heavy weight of Stiles on his tongue, the way that he slides through the wet heat of Derek's mouth, Stiles won't last very long going by the loud, rasps of noise tearing from his throat as he reacts to the scrape of Derek's stubble against his dick. 

So Derek pulls off with a saturated smack and he licks his lips when he notices Stiles' gaze on him. 

"You're gonna, you’re gonna kill me," Stiles groans, laughing a little as his voice hitches around his rapid breaths. "I'm going to die. And you're going to have to, to tell everyone that you killed me by being too awesome at fucking." 

“I'll make sure to tell your dad that your last breath on earth was spent moaning my name as you came,” Derek chuckles, his voice soft and subdued. 

"Fuck you," Stiles retorts automatically, he laughs again, squeezing his eyes shut. "Shit."

"I've got you," Derek tells him, pressing the palm of his hand against Stiles' trembling thigh. 

He slides two fingers back inside of him, and Stiles groans and squeezes and writhes against the bed, biting down on his lips as his sweat soaked hair drags against the damp cotton and he tightens his hole around Derek's fingers in gratification. 

Derek's gaze travels up the length of Stiles, to the way that his bones shift beneath his skin, to the raging red flush of his cheeks, to his head thrown back and his heart tightens. 

"Oh," Derek says. "Fuck, Stiles, you're gorgeous. _Gorgeous_." 

And he is, the way that he twitches and pulses around Derek, pushes down on him with abandon. It's a sight to behold. 

Derek meanwhile concentrates on making him feel good, he tries his hardest to ignore his own erection, and how his balls ache with the heavy need of burying himself into Stiles' heat. 

But Derek perseveres; he thrusts his fingers deep into Stiles, making his body ride _up_ with the momentum, twisting and curling, changing his angle by short millimetres until he jabs against Stiles' prostate. 

The first time that he hits it, is way too hard and Stiles jumps against him and grunts in pain, Derek tenses and presses sloppy kisses on his hip, whispering _"sorry, sorry, sorry,"_ into his skin. 

"'S okay," Stiles mutters breathlessly petting Derek's hair lightly, haphazardly. "Derek, it's okay. Don’t worry."

The second time, Derek is much more gentle, scraping his fingers against Stiles' heat and changing his trajectory by tiny, _tiny_ increments until he slides by the nerve endings.

"Holy _fuck_ ," Stiles gasps, his voice rasping over his throat. He arches off the bed, high and tight before he melts back into it, being able to do nothing but slither against the sheets.

Derek smoothes the pads of his fingers over the nerves, pressing down with a firmly gentle pressure for a good few minutes, circling, grazing, rubbing; and Stiles just _loses it_.

"Derek, right _there_ ,” he pants, body lifting into a taught pressured arc, his mouth falling open to gulp down mouthfuls of oxygen between frenzied garbles of, “Oh, shit, like that, _just like that_." 

Derek shifts his fingers slightly, so that his fingers slide past his prostate rather than jab straight into it, as he pistons his fingers in and out of Stiles. 

Derek is concentrating hard on where his fingers disappear in and out of Stiles' body when Stiles' fingers move down to scrabble feebly at Derek's wrist.

Derek stops immediately, his gaze rocketing up to Stiles' face, and his heart falters for a split second as he searches his expression for any pain or reluctance. 

But Stiles' fingers only wrap around in a weak, trembling grip around Derek's wrists. 

"No, don't stop," he says, voice soft and slurred, heavy lidded eyes trained on Derek. "It's okay, it's _so_ freaking okay, Derek. _God_."

And so Derek doesn't, he resumes the quick motions of his fingers as his gaze wanders over Stiles' belly, where pre-come gathers in a mess, and over Stiles' flushed chest, and he fucks him. 

He unfolds his thumb from his palm as he thrusts his fingers into Stiles and grazes it over the puckered rim of Stiles hole and Stiles jerks _hard,_ just as Derek wraps his hand around Stiles' cock and he pumps; it's more than enough to send Stiles straight over the edge. 

When Stiles comes it's like an electric current runs through him, his body jerks up from the bed taught with tension and he gasps, a garbled slurring of Derek's name that seems like it’s being torn from his very heart.

His fingers twist in the sheets beneath him, his toes curl and he shakes, twitching as he falls back upon the bed with a boneless thump, like a puppet whose strings have been cut.

Stiles slumps back on the bed and breathes hard, pressing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. His mouth, almost as red as rubies, hangs open as he tries to calm down with deep, deliberate breaths.

He’s shaking, still twitching through the aftershocks of his orgasm, so Derek runs a hand the wide expanse of his chest, his side, his hip before he grabs hold of Stiles’ thighs and holds them aloft.

He’s staring at the pink pucker of Stiles’ hole, at the way it squeezes shut with each pulse of Stiles’ remaining orgasm, before it relaxes into a perfectly small gaping ‘o’, the hole clinging wetly to itself with each movement.

He wants that, he thinks, he _needs_ to sink himself deep into Stiles, feel the heat surrounding him like velveteen bliss, so as to be that close to him, tethered to Stiles in the most intimate way possible.

“Like what you see?” Stiles says from up above and his voice is ragged and laboured, like whispers doused in whiskey. His face is still splotched with red, the blush slinking over his skin all the way down his belly.

Derek nods jerkily, his breath taken completely away by the sight of Stiles struggling to lean up on his elbows, shoulders still trembling, though Derek attributes that more to his feverish body adjusting to the milder temperature of Derek’s bedroom than anything else.

Stiles beckons him forward with a tilt of his head and a smile on his lips so Derek goes, he sinks his fists into the bed at either side of Stiles, his arms brushing along his sides, and he hovers over him to kiss his mouth.

The encounter is chaste this time, devoid of all the frantic energy they had just a few moment ago, now it’s just a sweet collision of their mouths, soft and warm and pliant against each other; Stiles sucks Derek's bottom lip into his mouth, tuggings gently until they part with a mellow noise. He opens his mouth to kiss Derek once more, and then it's nothing but their lips engaging in kiss after kiss after kiss.

Even the sound of their lips breaking apart is soft and hushed, small sucking noises of contentment in the still air of the room.

Derek can hardly believe that there’s still a fully functioning world out there, outside their little cosset of quiet contemplation;  world that’s ticking over _slowly_ , so slowly and not even aware of the feeling of lust and bliss that's inching up his skin, settling itself among his bones.

“Are you gonna fuck me, Derek?” Stiles murmurs against his lips.

Derek’s breath hitches at his throat, and he makes a needy noise, full of pure craving and rumbles through his chest and Stiles smiles, Derek can just about taste the satisfaction on his lips.

“Going to fill me up?” Stiles continues, whispering straight into Derek’s mouth in between kisses. “Split me wide open and just fuck me 'till I can't take it anymore-”

He laughs softly when Derek breathes hot breath into his mouth, rumbles low in his throat, _growling_ with need at just the sound of Stiles’ words.

Derek takes a deep breath and he lifts a hesitant hand, places it gently on Stiles’ stomach before he draws back a little, looking at Stiles. “Can I?”

Stiles rolls his eyes, smiles. “Derek-”

“No, Stiles. I _need_ you to tell me,” Derek’s being entirely serious right now and he can tell that Stiles realises that when that the playful glint dims in his eyes and an utterly grave expression overtakes his eyes.

Derek doesn’t want to ruin this, but he knows what it’s like to have your choice taken from something, even if it is sexual gratification, _especially_ so. He _needs_ to know that he’s not hurting Stiles, that he wants this and that he wants it as much as Derek does. “I need you to tell me.”

Stiles nods, offers Derek a tentative smile.

“Of course,” he whispers, head bobbing. “I want this. I want _you_ , in me. Whatever you’ve got, Derek. Like _now_ , right now, please?”

Derek smiles and fumbles to reach the condom, he rolls it on quickly and in no time at all he’s inching slowly down into Stiles’ heat. He groans deep and hard at the sheer feeling of finally, _finally,_ wrapping himself up in Stiles, his head hangs back between his shoulder blades, eyes squeezed shut at how amazing it feels.

He’s not going to last, he knows that, he can’t possibly last, not with the pulsing throb of Stiles around him, urging him closer, deeper. Which is why, when he’s finally bottomed out, balls snuggled heavy and warm against the curve of Stiles’ ass, he grips the other man’s hips and simply holds.

It’s like everything sharpens in that moment, the colours become brighter, more defined, and more _real_ as he holds himself close to Stiles. Derek takes his time in not moving, and eventually he can feel how Stiles is getting overwhelmed by how good it feels, he can hear the heaviness of his inhalations, feel the way his hips futilely try to move against Derek’s strong hold and see the way his chest undulates with each heaving breath at the feel of Derek throbbing steadily inside of him.

For Derek it feels just as wonderful, he holds himself tightly, feels every salted track of sweat running lengths down his body, feels Stiles squeeze against his dick in short uncoordinated jerks in the faintest hopes of gaining friction, more than anything though, he feels the overwhelming need to slide out and thrust and thrust and thrust into Stiles’ heat until they both can’t take it anymore, until they’re a tangle of limbs and panting breaths.

But Derek wants to savour this though, he wants to memorise the imprint of Stiles against him, the feel of him, the movement of him, just in case he never has this again. Just in case.

So when he moves, he keeps himself tucked tight against Stiles and he moves his hips in wide circles that drag all over Stiles’ insides, scraping against his prostate and sending frizzles of electricity bursting down the surface of his skin as he hears Stiles throw his head back and gasp for air.

Then he finally pulls out, just until the head of his cock catches against Stiles rim and Derek shudders all over, a fierce tremble that runs through his whole body and makes him feel tremendously lightheaded, so much so that his focus narrows only to the pure need to drive himself back into Stiles, and then he slams back in.

Derek cries out, shutting his eyes tightly as he curves over Stiles and Stiles curls into him as he feels the power of the thrust run through him, his hands lying carelessly at his sides, griping at the sheets, his spine curved up from the bed, a crease between his brows and his eyes glazed in helpless pleasure.

So then Derek leans over him, tucking his hands under his shoulder blades and hooking back up over his shoulders, tucking his face into the damp skin of Stiles’ neck, thighs trembling against him..

And then, _then_ , he drives into him, an absolute frenzy of shifting hips and the slicked, hot slide against one another. Derek is only vaguely aware of Stiles’ fingers running up his back, his fingertips scrabbling at him like the pitter-patter of raindrops on his skin.

His own breathless gasps, cries and garbled nonsense mix up with Stiles’ own shouts, there’s nothing but them and noise now and when Derek comes, it’s harder than he remembers coming in a very long time.

Brightness bursts behind his eyelids and he mashes face into the crook of Stiles’ neck, pressure zooming behind his closed lids as he rides out his release, his body rocking into Stiles in hard waves as Stiles pants into the wet mass of Derek’s hair, broad hands soothing the pressure running beneath Derek's skin. Stiles moving along with each of Derek's subsequent, hard and dragging thrusts, grunting with the momentum.

It's a long time until Derek can bring himself to gently pull out of Stiles, but as soon as he rids himself of the soiled condom he lies next to Stiles, throwing an arm over his belly and tangling their legs, not wanting to keep even a single inch of his skin away from him.

When he gets his breath back a little, he opens his eyes to find Stiles’ gaze already on him, golden eyes sweeping all over Derek’s face with such a look of earnest, serious affection that it makes it hard to breathe for a second.

“I think you broke me,” Stiles whispers.

Derek lifts a hand to Stiles’ lips, tracing the swollen contours of his mouth, he smiles a little to diffuse the weight of Stiles' gaze and he says, “Does that mean you’ll stop talking forever now?”

And he bursts out laughing at the thoroughly unimpressed look on Stiles’ face.

-

Stiles’ building is a three story, red-bricked low rise on the other side of town. It’s nearing the end of the afternoon when they finally unbuckle their seatbelts and clamber out of the camaro, this being due to the numerous distractions and delays that their hands and lips and bodies made as they tried to head out of Derek’s apartment.

Derek’s never been to Stiles’ before, so it feels strangely daunting. New and serious as it is, it feel like they’re finally taking another step in their relationship and that's almost terrifying to think about. 

Derek still feels a pang of guilt whenever he thinks about Stiles and him as a unit, as a set relationship, not only because Doctor Morrell’s words float to him in a way that sounds distinctively chastising but also because he’s scared of how everyone around them is going to react to it.

It feels more than right, when Stiles tangles his fingers with Derek’s as they walk up, it _is_ right. It’s good for the both of them, but Derek’s not entirely sure that the people around them will understand that.

They’ll think it’s too soon, he reckons, and that’s difficult because can he ever explain the months and months of the build-up? Or the subtle accumulation of affection for each other not only as lovers, but as the people that they are, because Derek has shown Stiles parts of himself that he didn’t even know he could share.

There are things that he’s certain he’ll never be able to tell him but the fact that he wants to and the fact that he’ll at least try to? That’s more than enough for now.

That’s not even to mention the fact that he’ll have to explain things to Isaac. Not necessarily because he and Stiles are both men, since Isaac has met some of Derek’s friends back in the city who are in same-sex relationships, but just the fact Derek has been going behind his back for so long.

With _Stiles_ of all people, Stiles who has had to work so damn hard to get his relationship with Isaac to the level that it is now, because Isaac won't understand _why_ they had to keep it a secret, Derek doesn’t even think that Isaac will understand why Derek is in a relationship with anyone other than Kate, despite everything that she has done.

And how could he anyway? He hardly understands why Kate is the way that she is, nevermind anything else. Derek just doesn’t want to bring even more unsettled disappointment into his son’s life but he doesn’t know how to go about it in a way that won’t inevitably break his heart.

Stiles squeezes Derek’s hand and rubs a thumb over the swell of Derek’s palm as they come to a stop in front of a neat, white door with a gold letterbox and ‘2C’ in polished gold-coloured metal fixed in the middle.

He grins bashfully at Derek, “Well this is me; welcome to Casa del Stilinski.”

When he unlocks the door, Derek doesn’t even have a chance to have a look around the living room before a voice from the couch speaks up.

“Hey, Stilinski?” the voice says and it's an almost unaffected conversational tone, like he’s just picking up on an abandoned sentence. He doesn’t even look their way, completely engrossed in the Lacrosse match playing on the television screen. “Did you fall into a ditch somewhere and forget how to use technology?”

The guy huffs a breath, seemingly annoyed already by the conversation, and Derek has the distinct feeling that this isn’t the first time that he and Stiles have had this particular conversation. “Or were you dropped on your head as a baby and just brought up dumb? Because I’ve been calling you all week and you-”

The guy, who was previously lying across Stiles’ couch, gets up to throw an accusing glare at Stiles. Though Derek doesn’t think the man, with light brown hair and sharp blue eyes, had even realised that Stiles had company, going by the way that his sentence drops as soon as he sets eyes on Derek.

There’s a second of silence from the three of them, the television blaring needlessly in the background, before the guy’s eyes dip and land on where Stiles and Derek are still holding hands.

The guy vaults off of the couch, face twisting in incredulity and he yells, “Stiles? What the fuck's going on?”

It’s like his outburst snaps Stiles out whichever startled trance he's in and he snaps his mouth shut from where it hangs open in surprise, untangles his hands quickly from Derek and moves towards the guy, “Jackson-.”

“ _No_. Don’t you _Jackson_ me,” he says. “I thought something had happened to you and you’re with _some guy_?” His eyes flicker to Derek quickly and back to Stiles as realisation dawns on his face. “Oh, no. Fuck, Stiles tell me you weren’t with him when you were with-”

“No!” Stiles says, and his voice falters when he realises that he actually did kiss Derek once when he was still with Noah. “I- no. It’s not like that, it’s not what you think.”

“It’s not what I _think_?”

“God, Jackson. I can exp-. Just get in the kitchen, _go_. I’ll explain everything to you in there,” Stiles shoos Jackson off towards the door before he turns around and gives Derek an apologetic look, bringing his hand up to gesture for him to wait. “One second, Der. Okay? Just sit tight and give me a second.”

Derek nods at him, Jackson meanwhile stands stock still, watching the entire exchange between them with a pinched look of concern between his brows.

Stiles turns around and shoves at Jackson’s motionless figure, sighing an infuriated grumble as he forcefully, and none too gently, herds Jackson towards the kitchen. They snipe in hushed tones at each other their entire journey there; Stiles gives Derek one last glance back before the kitchen door softly snaps shut.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a little bit of Jackson at the end, but fear not, dear readers. He will come back in full force next chapter. 
> 
> Let me know what you think of this chapter and I will speak to you soon! :)


	17. Playing God

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you guys!  
> I wrote a whopping 7k words for you guys! That's like a chapter and a half of Jackson, I fucking love Jackson. 
> 
> Let me know what you think of this fic and Nicole, counting on you for reviewing the mentions of Adderall in this chapter, dude :)  
> I hope you guys enjoy, see you soon! :)

[  
Next time you point your finger, I'll point you to the mirror. ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iDy2wCQYSrU&list=PLgnxrTrD23zQLT9ILLqmwjuXZFWlp1MSr)

-

Derek can hear the muffled conversation between Stiles and Jackson whispering through the door; it's not loud enough to distinguish individual words but it _is_ loud enough to let him know that a serious discussion is taking place.

A ball of feverish nerves is making a home in the base of his stomach as he stands there, still rooted to the spot. It turns out that he was right in assuming that people wouldn't take well to his and Stiles' relationship, but he just didn't think it would be so _soon_. 

He needs a distraction, he thinks, if only to stop himself from plastering his ear to the door in the faintest hopes of hearing what Stiles and Jackson are saying to each other.

As it is, Derek can only hear the sound of the fridge opening and closing, the shifting of feet as they move around the kitchen and soft tinkle of glass against glass.

Derek closes the front door quickly, before he moves to the couch, to pause the game that is still going on, and takes a look around Stiles' apartment. 

It's much smaller than Derek's, that's for sure, and a lot more cluttered. 

Stacks of books occupy almost every intermittent space, the coffee table, the side table, the television stand, the floor; and the books share space with video games, DVDs and CDs that have escaped the two large black metal stands over by each side of the TV.

There's a corridor alongside the door to the kitchen, though it runs dark with the lights switched off, and in the white space of wall between the corridor and the kitchen door hangs a large corkboard.

The board is filled to the brim with tiny snippets of Stiles' life; photographs of a younger Stiles with a neat buzz cut and surrounded by his friends, one of him and Jackson with cat-ear headbands, painted whiskers and noses making funny faces at the camera, another of him in his Lacrosse uniform pumping his fist in victory and grinning behind his helmet, one of him and Scott with ridiculous moustaches on their faces, and another one yet of a younger Sheriff looking proud in his brand new Beacon Hills Police Department Uniform with his wife standing beside him, beaming. 

But there are other things too, a set of post-it's with long forgotten to-do lists, a letter signed by someone named Heather, house bills and appointment letters for a Doctor Pilgrim, with the dates and times underlined thrice and "don't forget!!" scrawled in somebody else's writing beneath the most recent one. 

It reveals a lot about Stiles, and how much his life, at least right now, revolves around being dependant on the people around him, dependant on them to not let him fall into his addiction again. 

Derek is struck by the thought that perhaps this whole thing between them is too much, too soon. For Stiles that is, Derek forgets how young he is sometimes, because they bypassed the whole initial dating stage and fell head first into the seriousness of their relationship. 

And yet it's good and it's whole and it makes something in Derek's heart just sort of _lift_ , it makes that impression of misery in his chest a little easier to cope with and he's not sure that he can let it go now, let _Stiles_ go, now that he's with him. 

The distraction proves futile for Derek, his eyes keep drifting to the closed kitchen door without really meaning to, and he winces each time voices are raised. 

Jackson's really the only one whose voice raises, Stiles remains calm, from what Derek can tell, as he moves around his kitchen.

It's not like he can really blame Jackson for being wary of Derek, and of course he realises how it all sounds for someone who's just discovered their relationship without any prior information. 

He understands the incredulity in Jackson's voice when he yells, "Derek? Derek as in your _boss_ Derek?!" and he sympathises with the haggard, " _Christ_ , Stiles." and he cringes when Jackson screams, "I would rather stab myself in the eye with a _fork_!"

And yet, Stiles never raises his own voice in return, merely soothes Jackson's unease in his own particular way. 

It takes a while but eventually the door opens, Derek stands immediately as Jackson strides out, walking straight to Derek and extending his hand. 

"Jackson," he says: perfunctory and direct. 

"Derek," he replies, shaking the proffered hand with a firm grip. "Pleased to meet you." 

Jackson nods once before he turns around to where Stiles is coming out of the kitchen with a tray of drinks and throws him an _'are you happy now?'_ look before he collapses on the armchair. 

Stiles rolls his eyes at him and slides in on the couch next to Derek. 

"I just have apple and cranberry," Stiles says apologetically, he nudges Derek's leg with his own. "Is that okay? I'd offer you orange but Jackson is an orange juice _fiend_."

"Cranberry is fine," Derek assures, feeling entirely self-conscious with Jackson's critical gaze raking all over him. 

Stiles pours Derek his drink but his movements are tightly controlled, inadvertently revealing just how awkward he's feeling too. 

In fact, the only person who doesn't seem to be feeling uncomfortable at all is Jackson. He lounges on the armchair, legs planted firmly apart on the floor and his arms on the armrests, squinting at Derek as he takes his drink from Stiles. 

"Why do you never pour _me_ a drink?" Jackson asks when Stiles sits back.

Derek is thankful for the way that he's released from Jackson's gaze. It's not that Derek is easily intimidated, because he's _not_ but this is Stiles' friend; someone who cares about him and knows him a hell of a lot better than Derek does, and Derek can't be in a relationship with Stiles if Jackson, who has been through hell and high water with Stiles, doesn't like him. 

He won't. 

He simply refuses to be Stiles' Kate, he would never even dream of holding him back like that. 

"You're not a guest," Stiles snipes, rolling his eyes at Jackson. "You're over here so much you might as well live here," he pauses. "Why _are_ you here anyway?" 

"You weren't answering your phone," Jackson says. "So I came over here to see if you were alright." 

Stiles frowns, absently handing Derek some store-bought cookies on a plate, "How long have you been here?" 

"Since yesterday," Jackson tells him, lifting an unimpressed brow in his direction. "But I was giving you the benefit of doubt. You had about five hours before I was calling the Sheriff." 

Jackson stares at Stiles until he flushes with a look of guilt, then seemigly satisfied with the reaction, Jackson swivels his sharp gaze onto Derek.

"So, _Derek_ ," Jackson says, lifting an eyebrow in curiosity. "I've heard you own  _Hale_ _Financials_?"

"Oh my _god_ ," Stiles deplores, and he shoves a glass on the tabletop to nevertheless pour a drink for Jackson, glaring at him as he does so.

"I- yeah. Yes, I do," Derek nods decisively once and he smiles tentatively, "You've heard of us?" 

Jackson smirks, leaning forward, " _Have_ I ever, you’ve been rising on the league tables so fast in the past two years that people are saying that you might be as big as JPMorgan in the next decade or so." 

Stiles aggressively proffers a glass of apple juice at Jackson, "Stop." 

"What?" Jackson remarks, completely affronted, and he takes a careful sip his drink, eyeing Stiles with pseudo-innocence. "I'm just making conversation."

"No, you're not. You're schmoozing," Stiles accuses, he turns towards Derek, rolling his eyes with a long suffering look. "He's schmoozing." 

Jackson meanwhile, elects to ignore Stiles completely and addresses Derek, "I'm a financial analyst."

"No, you're not." 

"I'm a _budding_ financial analyst," Jackson amends tightly. 

"You've still got two years of school yet, Jacks."

"One and a half," Jackson mutters. He puts his drink down on the table, "It's never too early to start making connections."

"There's a time and a place," Stiles chastises, the words squeezing through his gritted teeth and out of the side of his mouth. "And that time is not during _introducing-Stiles'-boyfriend_ time." 

Derek's heart leaps, he hasn't really thought about specific monikers for them before, they've just been Stiles and Derek.

Derek and Stiles. 

But he can't deny the frisson of happiness that curls around his body as a result of the easy way that Stiles refers to him.

Jackson purses his lips, and his jaw tightens and he gets this _look_ on his face, Derek doesn't know quite how to describe it, it's an odd sort of look, it's condescending and smug and challenging but it has wariness and caution all mixed up in there too. 

"You know he's an ex-junkie, right?" Jackson says abruptly. Derek tenses, Stiles flinches but Jackson's tone is flippant, almost off-hand. Derek can sense the utter seriousness lying beneath his words nevertheless. 

The redness in Stiles' cheeks is now one of angry disbelief, he has a look of surprised embarrassment instead of guilt as he turns to his friend with utter incredulity. His mouth is in a tight pale line, his jaw is stiff and he looks so completely _hurt_ as he stares at his friend that it makes Derek even angrier on his behalf. This is all before it all seems to click into place for Stiles, and an expression spasms across his face, like understanding and something else entirely. 

"Jackson," Stiles warns, the word garbled through gritted teeth. 

But Jackson completely disregards him, leaning forward in his seat and clasping his hands between his knees, his voice low and serious, "What would a guy like _you_ want with a fuck up like him?" 

" _Stop it_ ," Stiles hisses.

Derek narrows his eyes, every single muscle in his body locking up in a flush of anger as he tenses, even more so than he already had been, and he glowers at Jackson, _this_ is who Stiles has for friends? Disapproval makes a stark impression on Derek's face but Jackson hardly even reacts to Derek's look, his own expression remaining almost blank and impassive, the only response being the slight smirk on his lips and the single eyebrow rising slowly in challenge. 

Derek grits his teeth, meets Jackson's gaze dead on and he growls, "Stiles is _not_ a fuck up." 

There's an intense silence in the ensuing staring match between the two of them, Stiles caught in open mouthed surprise between them.

The silence seems to stretch out for an eternity, Derek can hear the slow ticking of the clock that Stiles has hung up somewhere in the room, but he can't focus enough to count the seconds, his every spare piece of control reserved only for keeping himself from lunging at Jackson's throat from across the table. 

Derek feels anger burn low and settle heavy and hard in his stomach. He's just about ready to physically drag Stiles away from the callous words that still vibrate in the air around them when Jackson's expression dissolves into a small, genuine smile and an almost imperceptible nod before he leans back.

He's been played.

Derek's entire self just sort of deflates with realisation, Stiles sighs softly beside him and they both lean back into the couch. 

Derek doesn't appreciate being played like he just has been, but he has to give Jackson props for the pure theatrics in defending Stiles' honour. 

Jackson turns to Stiles and he smiles, completely unaffected by the heavy tension he just created, "He's a good one, I _like_ him." 

Stiles rolls his eyes, jaw tightening with irritation. But the relief in his body is palpable, and he raises his hand to cover Derek's, "You're a fucking douchebag." 

"And you're a delicate flower, Stilinski," Jackson says, reaching for the remote. "Relax, I was just testing him."

"There was nothing to _test_ ," Stiles says and evidently he's still annoyed at his friend's antics. "I'm not a child, Jackson. I don't know if you know this but I am quite capable of making my own decisions. I _can_ look after myself."

Jackson doesn't even deign to dignify that with a response; instead he just throws an exaggerated look of pure, unadulterated scepticism towards Stiles. 

It is the wrong thing to do, if Stiles reaction is anything to go by. There's a second's remiss, where Stiles freezes, staring at Jackson. Then he jumps up from the couch, pats down his pockets in search for his wallet and his keys. 

There's a tumultuous mix of anger and embarrassment and hurt all mixed up in his face and he refuses to look at either Jackson or Derek when they stand up after him.

"I'm just going to go to the corner store," Stiles says and it's clear that he needs space; he's jumped straight to defensive and is leaving Derek as Jackson behind at the starting line. "I'll get some things and when I come back we'll watch the game or a movie or _something_ , and we'll forget we even had this conversation because I just-." Stiles stops, takes a deep, heaving breath, scratches his fingers through his hair and turns to Derek. "Do you want anything?" 

He turned towards Derek, but he's not really looking at him, he's almost looking _through_ him as he waits for an answer. As soon as Derek shrugs, "I don't mind," Stiles turns his distant gaze to Jackson. 

" _Stiles_ ," he begins, sighing when Stiles' jaw tightens and the muscle beneath his skin ticks in irritation. Eventually Jackson gives up trying to procure eye contact and instead he mutters, "Whatever they've got, makes no difference to me."

Stiles nods stiffly once before he turns on his heel and marches towards the door. He pauses consideringly on the threshold, before he turns and pins Jackson with a look, "Don't do that whole _over-protective_ bullshit okay? The least you can do after all the shit you've pulled today is be civil to him." 

Jackson crosses his arms I've his chest and snorts a laugh, "I don't particularly care that much about you, Stiles. And proctecting your virtue is more McCall's style." 

Stiles rolls his eyes and shakes his head, mouth tightening before he swings the door shut with a heavy thud. 

-

The silence is rich and heavy the minute that Stiles leaves, the lingering mess of Stiles' emotions hanging in the air between he and Jackson like an immovable being. 

Derek opens his mouth to say something, anything that will appease the cloud of awkwardness that has rolled in above them but Jackson just holds up a finger to silence him. 

Derek does so instantly, out of sheer surprise at first and then he's quiet due to the utter _bafflement_ as he watches Jackson. 

Jackson who immediately crosses over to the door, looking first through the peephole and then through the keyhole for a few moments before he's striding back, past a befuddled Derek, as he heads towards the living room window. 

He parts the cream coloured blinds and leans against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest as he searches for something. 

For  _Stiles,_ Derek realises after a minute, either to make sure that his and Derek's conversation won't be eavesdropped on or to make sure that Stiles actually does go to the store like he said he would, instead of wandering off.

The store is located not five minutes from Stiles' building, they had driven past it on the way here, and from where he's standing, Derek reckons that Jackson will easily have ample view of the building and of Stiles. 

Derek's suspicions are confirmed when Jackson raises a hand and gives someone on the ground level, Stiles presumably, the middle finger with an indulgent smirk on his face. 

He crosses his arms again, and when he addresses Derek he doesn't look over to him.

"Stiles is pretty intent on keeping this thing between the two of you a secret," he says. "He's even ordered me to secrecy." 

Derek sits back on the couch; he guesses that they have about fifteen minutes to speak before Stiles is back, so he might as well make himself comfortable. 

"We wanted to grow into it first, before we told anyone," Derek says, careful to keep the defensiveness out of his tone of voice. 

Jackson's eyes flicker to Derek for a second before he’s back to fixing on the view outside of the window, "Are you sure about that?" 

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

"What the hell do you think it means?" Jackson retorts, he looks over at Derek and his face sours in condescencion. "It means that you're his _boss_ ," Jackson stresses, mouth tightening into a hard thin line for a brief second before he to the window. "I don't want him to go into this thinking that its worth fighting for if you're just interested in using him for sex." 

Derek bristles at that, heat surges through his skin like a vapour but he forces his voice to sound calm and collected, if only for Stiles' sake, "I'm not using him for sex." 

Jackson makes a dismissive noise in the back if his throat, crosses one ankle over the over as he shifts his position a little, "That's what you _would_ say even if you were." 

"Well I'm not, okay?" Derek seethes, and he winces a little at the hard edge of his voice, but Jackson seems unaffected by his outburst, barely sparing him another glance before he turns back to the window. 

Derek clasps his hands and brings them to his lips, searching for a way to make everything in his head come out in a feasible, coherent way but it's so much harder than he previously thought possible.

"It's complicated," he settles on saying, sighing deeply. "It’s different and challenging. _Stiles_ is challenging, but at the same time he's everything that I need right now and I know that it's-." Derek stops, takes a deep breath, averting his gaze from where Jackson is steadily looking at him. He feels embarrassed sure, but he also knows that he needs to get this out, to make Jackson _understand._

"I know it's a hard concept so soon after everything that's happened in _both_ our lives," he goes on to say. "But he's _Stiles_. He's funny and smart and kind when he wants to be, sarcastic little shit the rest of time. But he's great with Isaac and Wolf and with-."

Derek shakes his head a little, completely lost for words, he shrugs helplessly, "He's everything that I want." 

Jackson watches him quietly, a look of mild speculation on his face, "You're in love with him." 

It's not a question, it's a statement. 

An observation. 

Derek didn't think he was being that transparent with his feelings, but then again his lighter disposition is something that a lot of people have been noticing: Doctor Morrell, his parents, Erica, his siblings, Lydia and now Jackson. 

Of course, not everyone knows precisely what, or rather whom, the source of his newfound happiness is, but it is noticeable. 

Derek thinks of all the weeks that he's spent in Stiles' company, the small indulgences with each other, the care, the jokes, the kisses, the sex and it's just as if everything seems to have been building up to this very moment.

He's been careful in labelling his feelings for Stiles for a long time now; whether it's because of the newness of their relationship, or all the the crap he has had, and still has, to muddle through in regards to Kate, he's been entirely hesitant in attempting to put a name to his feelings. 

But now, the answer seems as clear as a crystal drop, as inevitable as anything really. 

Derek looks at Jackson, "Yes." 

Jackson doesn't say anything to that; he just gives Derek a long hard look before he turns back to gazing out of the window.

After a long few minutes Jackson speaks again, quietly, more to himself than anything else, "I still don't like it." 

Derek merely ducks his head, breathes in deeply before he sighs it out softly.

He'd expected it, yes, but the hope that was beginning to bloom makes the hurt of it even sharper.

Jackson turns back to Derek, "It's nothing personal." 

Derek huffs incredulously. 

"It's not," Jackson insists. "I'm sure you're a great guy or whatever, and you _do_ make Stiles happy, I'm not blind."

"But?"

"But the fact of the matter is that Stiles is nowhere near being healthy yet," Jackson says and he levels Derek with a steady, evaluating look.

"I'm worried about him," he says. "We _all_ are. Stopping your Adderall intake when you've been prescribed it since you've been eight years old is not exactly easy, Derek. On him _or_ on us. He still has bad days, his nerve endings are shot to shit, he can hardly keep down a job because of his attention span, and the only things that he actually _can_ concentrate on lately are his books. I mean, shit. You really think you want to handle all that?" 

"I can try," Derek replies and he hates how the words sound so clichéd and so damn ineffective. "The same as you're trying." 

"I'm not doing it alone," Jackson snaps. "And it's still hard. Even with me and Scott and Doctor Pilgrim and the Sheriff, it's _hard_."

Derek frowns, he's a little slow on the uptake in lieu of all this new information but, "The Sheriff doesn't know."

Jackson laughs bitterly, "Oh, of course the Sheriff knows, Derek. Do you think I'm fucking stupid? I told him the _second_ that I found out, I wasn't about to let Stiles risk his life just because he has a stupid as fuck heroic complex."

Jackson spits out the words, his voice laced with frustration, his hands clenching into fists where he has them crossed over his chest.

"He's so damn stubborn; he thinks that he can do everything himself, that he can spare everybody else the pain; which is exactly what got him into this whole fucking mess in the first place," Jackson breathes harshly, chest having. "Stiles thinks he's got it _all_ figured out, but if I didn't find him that day he'd still be shaking on the floor, taking Adderall like it's his fucking lifeline. Either that or he'd be _dead_." 

Jackson looks at Derek and he sees the determination in the man's face, the concealed terror on the hard line of his mouth, "Because Stiles is too proud to admit that he has a fault, or that he actually _can't_ do it himself. He can't even accept the fact that his actions have consequences; he's more willing to ignore a problem until it goes away. So, the Sheriff knows, Derek, it's just that Stiles doesn't _know_ that he knows." 

There's a long pause and then Derek asks quietly, "Are you ever going to tell him?"

Jackson takes a few deep breaths, trying to recompose himself a little. "We're waiting until he's a little more stable. Just until we're sure he's not going to have an outright panic attack when he finds out that his dad knows. Then we'll tell him."

"This doesn't change anything," Derek tells Jackson a few moments later. "He's a good man. And knowing about everything; it doesn't change the way I feel about him." 

It's quiet for a little while, Jackson standing over by the window looking out for Stiles and Derek processing every single facet of new information offered to him, both lost in thought. 

Derek realises that Jackson perhaps hasn't been able to speak to anyone about this really, and it's been him and Scott carrying the responsibility of Stiles' health like a silent, heavy weight on their shoulders. Stiles wouldn't ever want to feel like a burden, or feel like he's dependant on anybody else. 

He's grouchy even when Derek offers to do simple, everyday things for him, an action that doesn't even register in Derek's mind, he just _offers_ and that's that. Yet Stiles takes that to mean that Derek doesn't think he's capable of doing it himself and it doesn't sit well with him, so he grouches. 

Of course, it would be so much worse with him having give up part of his independence like this, just to survive. 

Derek thinks of Jackson keeping tabs on him with his phone calls and the notes on the medical letters hanging on the corkboard and he realises how stifled Stiles must feel about the _necessity_ of it. 

Derek can't even imagine how it's like for the Sheriff who has to worry, but worry from afar. He can't even think of how it would be if Isaac was in Stiles' place, he'd be half-out of his mind. 

Jackson clears his throat a little, and he shifts in a way that suggests he spies Stiles coming back. 

"If you hurt him," Jackson says quietly. 

"I'm not going to hurt him." 

"On the off chance that you _do_ hurt him," Jackson insists, turning his gaze back onto Derek. "I'll kill you. I will. I don't care that you're built like a fucking brick house. I will find some sort of..."

Jackson shakes his head and squints his eyes as he thinks of something appropriate, Derek thinks he looks a little crazed, "Some sort of _lizard_ _venom_ or some shit and I will paralyse the _fuck_ out of you, Derek, and I'll kill you. Stiles has been through too much in the past year to get his heart broken again." 

Despite everything, Derek finds his lips tugging upwards in a small smile, he presses his clasped hands further into his lips to try to dispel it, "I'm not going to hurt him."

Jackson harrumphs in annoyance, dismissal clear in his tone and the mask of indifference firmly replaced as he walks back over to the armchair and sits down to press play on the paused game. 

"You like Lacrosse, Derek?" Jackson asks mildly, Derek's not sure if he's actually interested or if he's just trying to make small talk in time for when Stiles walks back in the door. 

Regardless Derek answers, "I'm more of a baseball man."

Jackson is quiet for a second, eyes firmly on the game flashing across the screen and then, "Stiles likes baseball." 

It's a simple admission, but to Derek, it sounds like acceptance. 

-

The weeks pass by quickly after that, he and Stiles find their own rhythm and soon enough they work in a way that seems seamless to the untrained eye, everything between them seems to simply fall into place. 

Late night dinners become a common thing, with kisses and smiles and hugs that feel like so much and not enough. 

There are times when they are simply themselves, exasperation lacing through their everyday lives with nonsense arguments and petty remarks.

There's that the one particular day that Derek just turns on his heel and he's _this_ close to tearing out his hair and he just yells, "I'm not having sex with you in my _car_." 

"It's a really sexy car, Derek," Stiles says and juts out his chin in defiance, "Why not? I mean sure, it'll be a bit crowded but-"

"But nothing," Derek hisses, and then quieter, teeth gritted in embarrassment he says, "I am not having sex with you in a place that my _son_ frequents."

There's a split second of silence from Stiles before he just bursts out laughing, loud and carefree, completely guffawing at Derek's expense. He clutches his stomach, in a way that Derek thinks is entirely superfluous, and wheezes, "Your bed, Derek. God, your _bed_ ," with tears in his eyes and fondness on his face. 

Derek merely scowls at him, caught short by the realisation because it is true; Isaac is spending more time in Derek's bed.

Weekend mornings find him curled into Derek's warmth with Wolf, now without his cast, lost somewhere between the sheets, but grumbling happily nevertheless. 

But on many other days the bed houses Derek and Stiles, intertwined in various states of dress, depending on how desperate they are, being loud and raucous on the days that Isaac isn't there and quiet in the nights where he sleeps down the hall. 

They have sex in a lot of places: against the wall of Derek's bedroom, in the shower, in Derek's office (on multiple surfaces), even on the floor of the hall that one time that Isaac stays at his grandparents and Derek can't quite wait and he fumbles for the condom and the lube in Stiles' bag as he tackles a laughing Stiles to the cold tiled floor.

They have sex so much that Stiles buys a jumbo pack of condoms and places the box on the top shelf of Derek's wardrobe.

Then he turns towards Derek, smiles and widens his eyes in a way that doesn't look entirely sane. 

But there are conflicts too, many of them; particularly concerning Isaac. 

Derek still refuses to let Stiles be anywhere near him when Isaac has a night terror, it's not that he doesn't trust him, he assures Stiles, but more that this is his _son_ , and his vulnerability isn't something that he's willing to let anyone else but him see if he can help it, because he's his father and it's his job to protect him.

It's difficult to explain that feeling to someone who isn't a parent, but Derek isn't about to start making apologies for the way that he looks after his kid. 

There are also the times that Isaac's gaze lingers a little too long and a little too suspiciously in the slither of space between Derek and Stiles when they sit or stand close to each other. They don't even realise that they're doing it, standing so close that their arms touch, sitting with their thighs pressed tight together. It's an automatic action, to gravitate so close to each other that they bask in the heat of the way that they fit together. 

But it makes Isaac pause and it makes him crawl up in the space between Derek and Stiles, forcing them apart, or do something that monopolises Derek's attention entirely. 

It's not that he treats Stiles any differently, or that he regresses into that initial dislike he had for Stiles but it's _something_ , and it's noticeable. 

Stiles wraps his arms around Derek one early morning as they lean against the kitchen counter, waiting for the coffee to brew, Stiles in some ridiculous tee shirt and Derek in his immaculate suit, looking like they're from two different worlds but with their foreheads pressed together as they breathe. 

"We need to tell him," Stiles murmurs. 

Derek fears the inevitable; but he has no idea how to bring about that discussion. How is he supposed to sit his son down and tell him about he and Stiles?

It's his cowardice, Derek knows, that'll be his final downfall. 

"I know."

Stiles doesn't say anything, merely holds him tighter. 

Sometimes, the silence that Stiles offers is the last thing that Derek wants, the silence because Stiles  _knows_ that Derek and Jackson are communicating Stiles' progress between themselves.

Stiles won't say anything, but he gets that pinched look on his face and he glares at Derek and he disappears for hours at a time with Isaac and Wolf to the park, leaving Derek at home, staring out of the window instead of working like he should be doing.

Although, it's worth it when Stiles tells Derek that he loves him. Stiles so nervous when he tells him, vibrating against Derek's skin where they're curled up together; Derek is almost asleep when Stiles' voice catches him. 

"Derek?" Stiles whispers, voice hitching with apprehension. 

They fit together in a way that allows for perfect eye level, so when Derek opens his eyes, he's staring straight at the bronze colour of Stiles' eyes, slightly darker in the night. 

Stiles looks worried and pale, his eyes darting about all over Derek's face. 

Derek panics a little at the grave expression and he desperately blinks the sleep out of his eyes. 

"What's wrong?" Derek's asks and his voice is still slow and sleep muddled, it frustrates him a little.

Stiles shakes his head, "Nothing."

" _Stiles_ ," Derek intones, he knows it's serious going just by the look on Stiles' face. It's not just 'nothing' and he knows it. "Don't say-"

Derek's words are interrupted when Stiles lifts his hands, touches gentle, tentative fingertips to Derek's mouth, pressing lightly once before retreating almost immediately and then pressing down a second time, where they mould to  the plush fullness of Derek's lips, Stiles can't look away from the sight. 

Derek sees Stiles pulse beat fast and hard against the skin of his throat, and faster and harder _still_ when he finally looks up to lock eyes with Derek. 

"I love you." 

Derek pauses, unsure if he's heard correctly. In fact he stares so long that Stiles' expression falls and he removes his hand like he's been burned, swivelling his gaze from Derek's.

"You love me?" 

"Just forget I said anything," Stiles dismisses quickly, curling back in on himself as he rolls on his back to stare at the ceiling. "Just forget-"

He shakes his head slightly and falls into silence then, his throat working incessantly as he lies stiffly beside Derek.

Derek leans up on an elbow, runs gentle fingers down the length of Stiles cheekbones, “I love you too.”

Stiles stares at him for an incredulous, long second before he surges up and kisses him, hard and absolutely wanting, like he's quenching his thirst, and he mutters _‘God, Derek, I was so worried I'd said the wrong thing’_ and  _‘Please don't ever do dramatic pauses to me again’_ against his mouth.

And later, Derek sits up against the headboard and lets Stiles sink down on his cock, leaning back against Derek’s chest. Stiles turns his head, sighs in soft contentment, kisses Derek’s neck before he claims his mouth.

In return Derek splays a warm hand low on his belly and wraps the other hand around Stiles’ cock, pumping slow and hard as Stiles fucks himself on Derek with swirling hip movements, gasping and whining into Derek’s mouth.

It all comes to a head on a Friday when Laura accompanies Derek and Isaac back to the apartment, it’s just the three of them today and they’re pretty sombre in lieu of the harrowing hour they'd just spent at Doctor Morrell’s.

She’d given Derek a hard look, a look which meant that she knew that Derek had utterly disregarded everything she told him all those sessions ago. The worst of it was that she looked utterly understanding, smiled at him in solidarity and that had made everything about a _thousand_ times worse.

Isaac is sitting at the table eating banana slices and trying to feed them to Benji the Penguin when Derek spills coffee on Laura’s pearl pink blouse, so wrapped up in his own thoughts and guilt as he is.

She waves off his apologies and rolls her eyes, “ _Language_ , Derek.”

Derek looks at Isaac who is sitting stock still with a banana slice half way to his mouth, startled in awe of the litany of curses that had just passed his father’s lips.

Laura just shakes her head and turns to go down the hall throwing an, _‘I’m going to borrow on your one of your shirts,_ ’ over her shoulder.

Derek is in the middle of mopping up the spilled coffee with a dishtowel when he hears a crash coming from his bedroom, and then a long ominous silence.

He exchanges a look with Isaac before he’s up and heading down the corridor.

“Laura?” Derek hedges, nudging the door of his bedroom ope; his breath gets trapped like a painful bubble in his throat at the sight that greets him.

Laura is standing, still in her coffee-stained pink blouse, in front of Derek’s closet with a box in her hand and condoms spilled all over the floor, looking surprised and angry.

Derek can do nothing but stare at the condoms, he knows exactly what the tableau presents, he can hear Isaac rushing up behind him to see what all the fuss is about and he just barely has any sense of mind to throw his arm out and stop him.

“Go to the living room,” Derek says.

“But-”

“ _Now_ , Isaac,” Derek warns.

Isaac’s mouth drops open a little bit, like he’s thinking of arguing but then he catches the look on his father’s face, he scrunches up his mouth but he heads to the living room nevertheless.

Derek takes a deep breath, his heart feels like it’s about to burst out of his chest, he closes the door firmly and he heads towards Laura, who's still staring at him in outright disbelief.

He gently tugs the shoebox from her grasp, she resists a little but Derek figures that she’s still in shock, he can’t quite bring himself to look at her face to make certain.

He kneels down when he eventually takes the box, painstakingly picks up all of the condoms and places them back in the box, his mouth feels dry and ragged, breath burning his lungs with each inhale and he does _not_ want to face the wrath that will inevitably follow.

Derek stands to put the box back but Laura’s hand darts out to knock it out of his hands, and they spill all over the floor again.

He’s not entirely surprised, Laura always reverts back to her childish idiosyncrasies whenever they get into arguments, so Derek simply drops back down to his knees and collects the condoms again, ignoring the anger radiating from his sister above him.

This time he does manage to put the box back in the wardrobe and he closes the doors before he turns around and forces himself to look at Laura, it’s the least he can do for now.

Laura narrows her eyes, shakes her head and hisses, “You selfish fucking _bastard_.”

Derek’s cheeks flush with hot guilt and he ducks his head, looking away from the expression in her eyes. “We’re all here thinking that you’re _hurting_ and you’re gallivanting around the place, fucking some whore?”

Derek grits his teeth, “ _Don’t_ talk about him like that.”

He realises his mistake instantly, Laura’s eyebrows raise high with incredulity.

“ _Him?_ ” Laura parrots, and tips her head to the side. “Oh, it’s a _man_ this time, is it? Tell me Derek, is it someone I know or do you just go around hunting for people to fuck?”

She’s doing it on purpose he knows, saying things that will deliberately hurt him. She’s deliberately baiting him, wanting him to lash out at her.

“Shut up,” Derek says. “You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.”

She laughs then, harsh and sour, dragging her hands over her face, “I can’t believe-”

“What?” Derek yells. “You can’t believe _what_ , Laura?”

Derek doesn’t even know how it happens, but all of a sudden they’re in the middle of an absolute _screaming_ match; yelling insults and barely concealed accusations at each other.

They’re standing barely three feet apart, red in the face and tearing at each other’s throats like wolves in the wild.

The argument isn’t even about Stiles anymore; it’s every single resentment they've have harboured over the past few months just spilling out them like cascades of water: sentences shrieked at each other, running together into one big mess of a fight.  

This is the Laura Derek knows: petty and bitter and so damn argumentative, this is her telling him how much of a failure she thinks he is, even if she doesn’t realise it herself.

Despite everything, Laura won’t tell anyone about what she’s discovered, not until Derek is good and ready; he knows because while Laura is a lot of things, she isn’t disloyal.

They’re brother and sister; they love each other so much that concern over one another manifests itself in yelling diatribes and roaring indictments. He knows that soon enough they’ll make up, that half of the things that they are screaming at each other will lie forgotten and they’ll hug and talk and sort out their differences.

But now, _now_ it hurts to have her say the things that she is. It stings like claw marks raking over his chest. The worst thing though is when she curls her lip and she snarls at him.

“Oh, tell me again how your choices work out Derek,” she hisses. “How I just don’t like Kate because I don’t _understand_ her, as opposed to her being insane and you being too damn fucking _blind_ to see it. Is this going to be another Kate? Huh? You’re going to put yourself through that again?”

Derek freezes, staring at Laura in utter disbelief, his eyes stinging with the threat of tears. She seems to realise exactly what she's said as soon as the words drip out of her mouth and looks equally taken aback at the venom in her words.

“ _What Kate has done to you,_ ” Derek recites quietly. “ _To Isaac is unforgivable. But not once did we ever resent you for it._ That's what you said, wasn't it?”

Laura looks confused for a second before she realises, with a flushed look of guilt, exactly what the words are.

The words that she'd said to him all those months ago in a cold police interrogation room in the city, the words that Derek has been using all this time a crutch to alleviate the guilt that's been eating him up from the inside, ravishing everything that's left of him.

It hurts to know that they were all just empty words, that they didn’t mean a damn thing. He breathes harshly as they stare at each other with guilt and pain and the accumulative lethargy from their argument catching up with them.

Laura opens her mouth to say something, an apologetic, worried crease between her brows but before she can, the door bursts open and Isaac is running in, flinging himself at Derek’s legs.

“Stop fighting,” he cries. “Daddy, stop _fighting_. Please stop fighting.”

Derek tears his gaze away from his sister, he wipes harshly at the tears on his face and he picks up his son, trembling with tears against his chest and clutching at Benji with fierce determination.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Derek hushes. “It’s over now. It's okay, I’m sorry.”

He walks out of his bedroom and down to Isaac’s room on autopilot, his hand rubbing soothing circles on Isaac’s back as he sobs into his father’s neck.

He puts him down on his bed with difficulty, Isaac clutching at Derek’s shirt.

“I’m not leaving, ‘Zac,” he assures. “I promise. I’m not going anywhere.”

It takes a long time to get Isaac to sleep; Derek places him on his stomach on the bed, then Wolf hops up, curling around Isaac’s head and mewling along with his sadness.

So Derek wraps an arm over Wolf’s golden fur, cards gentle fingers of his other hand through Isaac’s curls and presses his forehead close to his son’s temple, murmuring apologies and kissing assurances.

It takes a long time but eventually Isaac succumbs to his tiredness, he sniffles and he hiccoughs, but he eventually falls into sleep. Derek kneels by the side of his son’s bed for a long time, making sure that he’s alright.

When he finally goes back out, closing the door softly behind him, he finds that the apartment is cold and empty.

Laura had left and Derek didn’t even hear the door close.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So how was that? Eesh! Poor Derek, am I right?


	18. Coming up Easy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you guys! Super sorry this took forever to upload! But it's here now, I hope you enjoy dudes!  
> 

[Don't you remember seeing the sun coming up easy, whilst the rain came tumbling down?](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FIQ2Rxh1k9Y&list=PLgnxrTrD23zQLT9ILLqmwjuXZFWlp1MSr) 

-

Isaac awakens about an hour after Derek's fight with Laura. Derek's in his study, so lost within his own thoughts he doesn't realise when Isaac comes in.

He's hovering over by the open doorway, not quite sure whether he can wander in or not; his eyes are red and puffy, his clothes wrinkled and his curls a frizzed bundle atop his head. 

He comes flying at Derek as soon as his father beckons him over, climbing up on his lap to rest his head on Derek's shoulder. 

Derek meanwhile, does actually manage to get some work done in the hours that they sit there, even with one arm wrapped around his son. 

Isaac's quiet as Derek works, the stillness is something that Derek hasn't seen in weeks. It still makes him just as uncomfortable to see: Isaac who's usually full of chatter and smiles being sad and sombre.

Soon, Derek finds himself rubbing the palm of his hand over his son's back as he nuzzles his cheek against the top of his head. 

It's soothing if nothing else, being wrapped up so close and warm with his son. 

Isaac's still a little shaken, and Derek feels unbelievable guilty for the screaming match he had gotten into with Laura. He didn't even think of Isaac, too caught up in the rage and hurt of the argument.

Derek just didn't _think_. 

Eventually, he gives up all together in even attempting to do any more work.

He stands up and hitches Isaac higher up on his shoulder, his son's arm wrapped around his neck, and heads out of the study. 

He does a quick check in the living room before he goes to the kitchen, satisfied that Wolf is still safely passed out on his dog-bed. 

Derek ends up making the meal one handed, occasionally shoving things into Isaac's free hand to hold, all the while murmuring quietly to each other in conversation. 

It's nice, Derek thinks, easy and fond in the familiarity of it all. Derek lives for spending time with his son, for when he can give him his full attention and just shower him with kisses and hugs and love because more than anything, Isaac needs to know that he's loved. 

He _needs_ to know that what Kate did was her fault and her fault alone. 

So after dinner, Derek hands Isaac a bowl of vanilla and toffee ice cream as desert, even though it's not strictly the weekend yet, just for the way that Isaac's eyes widen in surprise and he grins at Derek before he demolishes the bowl.

Even the brain freeze that he gets from eating it too quickly, Isaac scrunches his eyes tight and shakes his head as he groans, licking the ice cream from the roof of his mouth, doesn't stop him from grinning along with his dad. 

It's when they are sprawled out on the couch later, Isaac mostly returned to his normal self, to Derek's eternal relief, that his son turns wide, serious eyes on him. 

"Dad?" he asks, swivelling in Derek's lap away from the cartoon playing on the television.

Derek hums in question, tearing his eyes away from the television to his son. 

"Can you teach me how to be a werewolf now?" 

He looks utterly grave, as if Derek would be bestowing an important honour on Isaac should he acquiesce. 

Derek thinks to tell Isaac that he isn't actually a werewolf, in a way that wouldn't expose their utter fictionality of course, but then he sees the hopefulness in his son's eyes and he can't quite bring himself to do it. 

Which is why, ten minutes later, Derek's in the middle of the living room, the coffee table having been unceremoniously shoved to the side, on top of one of Isaac's blankets. 

"First, I have to give you the bite," Derek confides solemnly.

"The bite?" 

"Mmm-hmm, but you know what, puppy?" Derek says, and fights to not grin at how Isaac leans forward almost immediately, and whispers, _'What?'_   

"I'm going to have to chase you first!" 

It takes precisely two seconds for the words to sink in Isaac's mind and then he's bounding away from his father with a delighted shriek. 

Wolf wakes up instantly, disorientated from his sleep and barking a little hopelessly as he stands on shaky legs. 

Derek prowls around the floor as Isaac tries to evade him, he knows he probably looks like a fool but he's having too much fun to care, he gives Isaac a few minutes of chase before he's grabbing him around the middle and dropping him on his back. 

Derek lifts up his shirt and blows a loud raspberry into Isaac's stomach as his son squirms beneath him, laughing breathlessly as he tries to fend off both his father tickling him and Wolf licking his face. 

When Derek finally relents, Isaac is red-faced and breathing hard but he's got a huge grin on his face and that's enough for Derek. 

Derek helps him sit up, and they fall back on their hands and knees, nose to nose as they go cross-eyed. 

He nuzzles his nose against his son's before he pulls back a little and he says, "You're a werewolf now, little one. The bite is a gift. You're one of us." 

Isaac scrambles on to his feet, clutches his hands to his chest and he moves in short, jerky motions, just as if he's in the midst of a painful transformation, jauntily accompanied by his very own sound effects as Derek looks on. 

Isaac jumps on the spot and lands in a crouch, looking up at Derek as he bares his teeth in a child-sized smirk, and in his young voice he intones, "I'm the Alpha now." 

They jostle playfully for a while, pseudo-sparring whilst Wolf yaps happily beside them. 

They roll around on the floor and they duck away from each other and Derek fakes being wounded by Isaac's fearsome claws and sharp fangs. 

Isaac eventually beats him with a fatal blow to Derek's chest and Derek cries out as he falls flat on his back: defeated. 

Isaac laughs before he falls sideways over Derek's belly, completely tired out. 

Eventually, he migrates up the length of Derek's body, lying with his back to Derek's chest, his head on Derek's shoulder and he places his arms and legs over Derek's, mimicking Derek's star-spangled pose. 

Wolf lifts his head up from where he's tucked into Derek's side, then he snuffles closer and turns on his back too, his paws tucked close to his exposed belly. 

Derek doesn't know how long they lie there in simple ease but soon Isaac is yawning and rubbing at his eyes, so Derek gets up and runs him a bath and makes him wash his face and brush his teeth before he bundles him in his blue pyjamas and settles him into his bed. 

It takes five chapters until Isaac's eyes are drooping and he's pulling at a curled tendril of his hair in tiredness, Derek suspects that it only took this long due to his son's earlier nap, and Derek knows that he's moments from falling asleep.

Isaac's relaxes and falls half asleep even as Derek turns on his night light, by the time that Derek turns off the overhead lights and closes his door, his son is lost to the world of sleep. 

- 

Stiles is at Derek's door within an hour of the text he sent, with worry lining his face. 

They sit opposite each other on the kitchen table and it's a while before Derek even finds the courage to speak. 

He licks his lips before he looks at Stiles and says, "Laura found out about us."

Surprise flutters across Stiles' face, mouth dropping open as he takes a deep breath. 

Derek drops his head in his hands, elbows digging painfully into the unyielding surface of the table, he's been trying to stave off thoughts of what all this will mean, what Laura knowing that Derek is with _someone_ will mean.

Stiles reaches across the table and wraps his fingers around Derek's wrists, before linking their fingers together as he places their clasped hands on the space between them, "Tell me." 

Derek does, at first he thinks to edit the particularly nasty remarks that Laura had thrown, some of the vile retributions that Derek himself had scattered in the air like flowers of unease. 

But then he looks at the man sitting in front of him, how frank and brutally honest he's been with parts of _his_ life, parts that he had hidden for so long, and he sees that he doesn't deserve a half-finished story when it affects him just as much as it affects Derek. 

Derek tells him the truth, all of it and his heart sinks, heavy and torturous, as he watches the expressions in Stiles' face flicker and brew darker and darker with each passing word from Derek's mouth. 

Derek's actually kind of surprised to not see a flicker of relief in Stiles' eyes when he tells him that Laura doesn't know the identity of Derek's boyfriend, so surprised in fact that his sentence trails off uncertainly as he stares at Stiles in confusion. 

But Stiles isn't _relieved,_ even if no-one knows that it's him, he's still concerned for Derek, for _them_ and he counts Derek's problems as his own.

It startles Derek how sincerely companionable Stiles is, how when he cares for someone, when he _loves_ them it's a complete and utter love story, it's a love that's infinite and deep and searing. 

It should scare Derek, how invested Stiles is in their relationship, but he'd be lying if he didn't feel that same agonising need to love him too. 

"What?" Stiles asks. 

"Nothing," Derek merely shakes his head, smiles weakly at him. "Just lost my train of thought. 

When Derek finally finishes speaking, it's absolutely quiet. It's so quiet that Derek can hear the quick thudding of his own heartbeat; he can hear the ragged breaths he's inhaling as he waits. 

Stiles' grip on Derek's fingers is tight enough that they're losing circulation, but Derek doesn't say anything, he doesn't move to jostle him, because Stiles' touch is the only thing anchoring him right now, the only thing that keeps him afloat amidst the sea of misery and guilt crashing inside of him. 

"Derek," Stiles begins, and he licks his lips. "I know she's your sister, but never have I ever wanted to punch someone more." 

"She didn't mean it," Derek assures, it's a feeble excuse and he knows it, but it doesn't make it any less true. 

"I don't care," Stiles argues. "She's your family, Derek, but that doesn't mean she gets a free pass for being hurtful and degrading to you." 

Derek doesn't say anything, he doesn't know _what_ to say to stop Stiles looking so pained and disappointed, a low simmering irritation bubbling just beneath the surface of his skin. 

He pushes Derek's hands away and stands up abruptly, his chair skittering back across the tiles. He stands up so abruptly that Derek's chest constricts, thinking, for that one terrifying second, that he's completely mortified Stiles into fleeing his company. 

But Stiles merely rounds the table, he swings a leg over Derek as he settles in his lap, tucking his face into his neck and his arms around his shoulders. 

Derek sighs with relief at being so close to Stiles, he curls his arms around Stiles' waist and pulls the man in for a tight hug. 

"This is going to be hard," he says. 

Derek can't help but agree, putting his head close to Stiles'.

"You're not selfish for wanting this," Stiles mumbles into the fabric of Derek's shirt. "For wanting _us_. You deserve to love just as much as anybody. Whether it's me you're with or someone else." 

Derek shakes his head, presses his lips to Stiles' temple, "Just you, Stiles. It's only you." 

Derek can feel the smile against his chest, even through the fabric, and Stiles slides a hand into the open collar of Derek's shirt, settling his fingers over the warm skin of his collarbone. 

"You're very romantic," he sighs, pressing his forehead to Derek's. "That was not the impression I got when I first saw you."

Derek chuckles, an image of Stiles all those months ago flashing through his mind, "What was it you said? Serial killer chic, right?" 

"Shut up," Stiles whispers, but he's smiling against Derek's lips. "You know it's true." 

"You're such a dork." 

"You like it," Stiles teases as he kisses Derek's mouth, soft and unrestrained, it makes Derek's entire self beam with happiness. 

Stiles' fingers card through Derek's hair, gentle flutters against his scalp that make him shiver and moan into Stiles' mouth, as he angles Derek's head to kiss him deeper. 

Stiles' hands cradle Derek's face; one thumb dragging across the hard line of Derek's jaw, everything about the kiss is unhurried. 

From the way that Stiles rolls his hips in wide, smooth circles to the way that their gasps meet and merge into one quiet moan. 

Derek can feel the air expelled from Stiles' lungs brush across his face as Stiles pulls off for an idle second, rubbing his lightly stubbled cheek against Derek's. 

He bumps his nose to Derek's as he re-claims his mouth, his tongue sweet and thorough as he licks and suckles. 

"Bedroom," Derek mutters against Stiles' lips. 

"I didn't bring any clothes with me," Stiles laments, pulling away a little. 

"Doesn't matter, borrow some of mine in the morning," Derek says, he loves seeing Stiles wearing his clothes, knowing that he'll smell of Derek's cologne, have a standing reminder of him so close to his skin. 

He stands up with Stiles in tow, he feels superbly smug when Stiles looks about him, to the inches of space between him and the ground, in utter surprise. 

"Woah there, superman," he breathes, readjusting himself on Derek, wrapping his limbs around him as Derek holds on to Stiles' ass with the palm of his hands. 

They walk to Derek's bedroom slowly, kissing languid and deep all the while, the only time that Derek stumbles is as they're walking out of the kitchen and Stiles shoots out a hand to wrap around the door jamb, laughing, "the lights, we need to get the lights," against Derek's mouth. 

They make it to the bedroom unencumbered of any injuries, working collectively to open and close the door before Derek heads towards the bed.

It's a straight line from the door to the bed, thankfully bereft of any clutter, and Derek places Stiles gently down. 

He doesn't stop kissing him, even as he crawls over him, curls an arm around his waist and pulls him further up the length of the sheets. 

They're lying the wrong way across the bed, legs dangling over this side, but it doesn't matter because there are hands and lips and skin brushing against each other as clothes are divested. 

They're still in their trousers when Stiles throws his head back and arches his neck as Derek bites a kiss into his throat. 

Derek does it again and again, watching the red flush flood his pale skin, low enough to be hidden by the collar of a shirt, until Stiles is hissing beneath him and writhing his clothed erection on Derek's stomach. 

Stiles pushes him off, making sure Derek's lying upright before he's taking his trousers and his underwear off. He stands up over Derek then, to shuck off his own with a temping writhe of his hips, grinning as he looks down at Derek. 

Soon they're both naked and Stiles is sprawled on top of Derek, knees planted either side of him. 

He places a hand on Derek's chest as he reaches for the bedside table, flicking on the table lamp before his eyes swivel to Derek and he smiles. 

He kisses him firmly before he begins to trail kisses down Derek's chest. His lips skim over the smooth, warm skin and his tongue dips in the ridges gained from Derek's new workout regime, something Stiles has been very fond of lavishing attention on. 

He sucks a lovebite on Derek's collarbone, another one over his heart, one further low on Derek's stomach. 

He takes the time to kiss the inside of Derek's thighs before he uses his fingers to guide Derek's cock into his mouth. 

From this vantage point, looking down at Stiles poised on all fours above him, Derek can see everything: he can see the pale curve of Stiles' spine, the soft swell of his ass, the strength in his arms as he braces them on either side of Derek's hips. 

The heat of Stiles' mouth around his dick is unbelievable, it's tight and wet and slick and it makes Derek swivel his hips gently into Stiles' mouth, searching for more of that beautiful, heated friction. 

He's riveted to the sight of Stiles bobbing up and down the length of his dick and he has to draw in a sharp breath when Stiles slides his mouth back up, one clear drop of saliva escapes his lips and runs down the length of his cock. 

And god, Derek? Derek can _feel_ that droplet run down every single inch of his cock, the way that the air cools it as it travels makes him shiver from head to toe. 

Stiles looks up then, grinning around the head of Derek's dick, and locks brown eyes onto green ones before he collapses his arms and lies on the bed. 

Stiles widens his jaw to take more of Derek into his mouth, immediately tightening his lips over the warm, silky-smooth surface as his hand gently curves around Derek's balls, rolling them between his fingers as Derek groans and curses above him. 

Derek closes his eyes against the pressure folding in from all sides, simmering on the edges of his body when Stiles fists Derek's cock in long, bold stripes as he sucks. 

Derek can feel his oncoming orgasm, his vision blurs around the edges for the scant few seconds that he opens his eyes, he can feel the prickle of heat on the surface of his skin and then Stiles pulls off. 

He swipes his tongue across the slit, dipping into the edges to coax the pre-come to sidle and spill over the edges of Derek's cock. Stiles hums as he smears the wet tip over his reddened lips, the vibrations hammering across Derek's skin, before he places a steadying arm over Derek's hips and fits his lips around the underside of the flared head of Derek's cock. 

He looks up at Derek, playful mischief etched into his expression, and then he sucks; one long, _powerful_ action that bubbles over Derek in a fiery frenzy, locking up all his muscles as he throws his head back and comes. 

He doesn't even get to warn Stiles, he closes his eyes tightly and grits his teeth, desperately tryinh to stop from moaning too loud; he's shooting ropes and ropes of warm come on Stiles' tongue as he continually jacks him off. 

Derek comes down slowly, panting heavily as he feebly fucks up into Stiles' fist, riding himself languidly as he tries to breathe through it. 

Stiles lets go as soon as Derek twitches in overstimulation, crawling upwards to kiss Derek even as he wraps his fist around his cock and runs his fist up and down his length. 

Derek bats his hand away, using both of his instead to twist and turn on Stiles' cock, as he chases the taste of himself in Stiles' mouth. 

Stiles whines into Derek's mouth, pausing in his kissing only to breathe hot air into Derek's mouth as he shifts his hips, fucking up into the heat of Derek's hands. Derek feels the hot and smooth skin of Stiles' cock on his palms, he can feel every single vein run past his fingertips, feel the wetness of it, drenched skin from how hard he is. 

Derek opens his eyes when he hears the hitch in Stiles' breath, how he pants all the more faster, harder. 

His own breath is taken away by the sight of Stiles' eyelashes fanning out, long and dark, over his cheeks, the way that pleasure ripples across his face so softly and the way that his skin glows in the light from the table lamp. 

Derek flexes his grip on Stiles' dick, both hands at the same time, a quick, tight motion that makes Stiles buck up into him, spill himself all over Derek's chest, his head dropping forward as he gasps.

His expression flickers between surprised awe and slack-jawed pleasure, Derek can't quite help himself when he surges up to kiss him. 

Later, much later, when Derek has cleaned himself up and snuck down the hall to lock the door, he climbs back into bed. 

Stiles is sprawled half-asleep on the bed, he sighs happily when Derek pulls him in towards him. 

Derek tucks his head into Stiles' neck, rubbing his palm over his belly, as he takes a deep breath. Stiles places his hand over Derek's and squeezes tight.

"It's probably going to suck," he mumbles, and Derek has to take a second to realise that he's talking about their earlier conversation. "But at least we'll have each other." 

"We'll do it together," Derek agrees, it's going to take a while to make the people in their lives understand but, "We'll do it together." 

-

A hot beam of iridescent sunlight breaches the glass window of Derek’s bedroom and bathes the entire place in a shower of gold and platinum radiance. 

As Derek finally awakens he stretches long and languid, revelling in the feel of his muscles working out of their fatigue. 

When he curls back in, following the momentum of his stretch, he’s surprised to note that it's into the feel of Stiles’ soft skin against his lips.

He's always a little surprised, truth be told, if only because he gets to have this again; to have someone to care for and who cares for him equally in return. 

Derek is struck once again by Stiles and the absolute candour of their relationship, the amount of trust they have in each other is astounding. Derek didn't think that he would ever trust anyone else after Kate, he didn't think he'd fall in love again, he didn't think he deserved it. 

But _Stiles_ , Stiles is something else. He's laughter and love and mistakes and problems all bundled up into one and he makes Derek feel so much better, makes him try so much _harder_.

He's beautiful and charismatic and he allows Derek to be able to share in that, to share in _him_ and Derek doesn't know if he'll ever be able to express that gratitude.

So for now, Derek ducks his head and presses a warm kiss to Stiles’ shoulder blade, he takes a moment to smile to himself in easy contentment as he gently rubs the tip of his nose into the soft hair at the nape of Stiles’ neck. 

He tightens his arms around him and presses closer still; the warmth between their naked bodies is a palpable thing, enveloping the both of them in a soft shell of comfort.

Derek hooks his chin over Stiles’ shoulder, his hand finding the slow relaxed pulse beating against Stiles’ chest and he watches the powdered dust particles float carelessly in the yellow sunlight of the room.

Derek breathes in deeply, sighing happily before he presses teasing kisses across Stiles’ mole-dotted shoulder and up the column of his throat.

Stiles shivers his way into consciousness, a continuous ripple beneath his skin that makes Derek tingle with affection. Derek watches his lips stretch in a long, slow smile, eyelashes dusting the top of his cheeks. Then Stiles further tips his head back onto Derek’s shoulder, humming sleepily at the soft brush of Derek’s lips.

Derek ghosts his lips over the hollow lying just behind Stiles’ ear.

"Morning,” he whispers, as his hips begin working his erection in unhurried circles into Stiles’ ass. 

Stiles cants his own hips backwards into Derek, furrowing in the heat of him, he hums once again with his eyes still closed, a smile playing on his lips.

"This is a good way to wake me up," he mumbles, "I approve more of this.”

Derek huffs a soft laugh against Stiles’ hair, “Good?”

Stiles turns his head slightly, pressing his lips to Derek’s and it’s so sweet that Derek doesn't even care for the staleness of their morning breath. 

Stiles opens his mouth in a small sigh, tongue darting out to taste Derek’s bottom lip before sucking it into his warm mouth, releasing it with a lazy nip.

“Definitely,” he murmurs against Derek’s lips.

Derek groans softly into Stiles’ mouth, his mind reeling as he feels Stiles’ fingers sweep slowly up his thigh, leaving a trail of lingering, phantom touches that electrify Derek's skin. Stiles’ fingertips press down as an incentive to make Derek grind harder, and Derek does so hungrily, ducking his head and huffing small breaths of air against Stiles’ throat, closing his eyes tightly as the _feel_ of Stiles inundates him over and over in a cacophony of lust.

Derek brushes the hand resting on Stiles’ chest down towards his stomach; he can hear Stiles’ breath hitch in the back of his throat as Derek’s fingers rub in the dusting of hair just beneath his navel in the promise of more. 

But before Derek can wrap his fingers around Stiles, tight and unyielding how he likes it, Stiles pulls away. 

He shifts so that he is situated on his back looking up at Derek; and Derek himself reallocates his body in between Stiles’ legs so that he blankets Stiles. 

Stiles presses a stilling hand to Derek’s hip and Derek takes heed and instead pushes his forehead against Stiles’, sighing softly. He doesn’t move one iota, despite the aching need to grind against Stiles that fills his stomach with an incessant tangle of heat.

Stiles wraps his hands around Derek’s neck, moving so that Derek’s head rests against the crook of his throat and their hips are angled away from each other. 

Stiles kisses his temple and they stay like that for a long, idle time, with Stiles unhurriedly stroking Derek’s broad back, fingertips dragging harmoniously on Derek’s skin.

Derek loses track of time like this, he closes his eyes and focuses on Stiles breathing under him. 

Later, when he's very nearly asleep again, Stiles speaks.

“What time is it?” he asks, Derek can already feel him elongating his neck to take a peek at the alarm clock placed on Derek’s bedside table.

“Too early,” Derek grumbles into his skin, tightening his arms around Stiles as if to prevent him from leaving.

Stiles laughs as he curls back into Derek’s embrace, tries to kiss his cheek despite the awkwardness of the angle, “I have to go, Derek.”

Derek lifts his head, raising an incredulous eyebrow at Stiles, whose brown hair flitters out in all directions in stark contrast to the white pillow beneath his head. 

By Stiles’ soft laugh, Derek guesses that he doesn’t look much better. “It’s Saturday.”

Stiles reaches to smooth down Derek’s hair from the static mess it has tangled itself into, a smile ghosting his lips. “That’s exactly why I have to go,” Stiles explains. "I'm meeting my dad for late breakfast."

"Can't you stay a while?" 

Stiles shakes his head, "I have to go home and shower and change. I can't turn up like this," he gestures at himself, looking sated and tired and utterly debauched. "What am I going to tell him Derek? Because somehow I doubt that telling my dad that I just stumbled out of my boyfriend's bed, the one he has no idea I even have, is going to be well received."

He grazes the soft pad of his thumb over Derek’s cheekbone, smoothes it over his reddened lip. 

Stiles’ eyes are soft and kind in the early morning light, but his smile turns small and wan.

“Derek,” Stiles gaze looks torn, a deep frown harrowing his expression and Derek realises that his face must be reflecting the hurt that is viciously lashing the inside of his skull. 

“Don’t be like that," Stiles sighs.

Be like what? Derek wants to say. Hurt that even after all this time we still we still have to hide? _  
_

But he doesn’t say that, of course he doesn’t say that. Instead he tucks his head back into the familiar nook of Stiles’ neck, he breathes in his essence: every single thing Derek loves summed up and collected in Stiles’ scent.

And he doesn’t even care how needy or how desperate he sounds, he just shuts his eyes tight, peppers kisses on Stiles’ skin and whispers, “Don’t go yet.”

Stiles frames Derek’s face with his hands, compelling him to look into his eyes, those eyes that makes Derek feel so much. Then Stiles fits their foreheads together, flutters his eyes closed and fits his thumbs in the hollows beneath Derek’s cheekbones.

“I have to go, Derek," he murmurs desolately.

Derek knows this; he does, so naturally, he ignores him and instead fits his lips above his and kisses his mouth for all he is worth. He feels the hot scorch of Stiles’ palms searing into him as they smooth down his abdomen to rest at his waist. He can hear the tiny, half-abandoned gasps and groans they both sound out when Derek turns his head millimetres to the left and slips his tongue inside Stiles’ mouth.

He pulls back for air after a long, long time, gulping down oxygen and marvelling at Stiles’ wide eyed, hazy expression, ever surprised that _he_ can make Stiles feel like this.

Derek cups his hand to Stiles’ cheek to pull him closer once again. “Five more minutes,” he implores.

Stiles nods frantically beneath him, eyes already closed and mouth stumbling keenly over his. 

"Five more minutes," he agrees. 

Derek cups the back of Stiles head, bringing him that much closer; he sweeps his tongue against Stiles’ and delights in the heady vibration of Stiles’ skin beneath his hands as he moans deep and low. 

Derek bites and suckles at Stiles’ lips, licks at the corner of his mouth before submerging himself in Stiles’ taste. Stiles licks into his mouth just as hungrily, hands pressing down on the tanned skin of Derek’s waist.

Stiles cants his hips up, hooking his legs behind Derek’s thighs and pressing himself against Derek. 

They have both long since gone soft, but Derek smiles against Stiles’ lips; he wouldn't be impervious to getting hard again for Stiles. Derek lifts up on his elbows, pressing their chests together and kissing Stiles deep as the other man languidly grinds into Derek’s crotch, sighing softly.

Derek feels a frisson of longing fire up the bones of spine when Stiles nips gently at his bottom lip, and Derek’s eyes flutter open to watch the vibrant expressions flickering across his face as they grind together. 

Derek skims his lips across Stiles' mouth, pressing small lingering kisses before turning his head in order to press a sweet kiss on Stiles’ cheek and Stiles hums, fingers flexing on his waist.

Derek smiles as he looks up, and then, _then_ he freezes.

His smile drops off his face and his chest constricts in the most awful, stomach churning way, his heart pounds at his ribcage, like a flock of a thousand birds of ill omen were battering at his chest in a desperate attempt at escape.

He’s horrified, he can’t move, he can’t breathe, he can’t _think_. 

His mind just echoes with his pleas of _‘No, no, no,'_ circling over and over and over again. 

It happens in a second, in just one tiny, insubstantial second but it's more than enough. Beneath him, Stiles stops moving immediately, brow furrowing in confusion and worry. 

He looks at Derek before following his gaze, glancing over at the doorway, he startles and his whole body tenses.

“Shit," Stiles says in a painful, sharp gasp of breath, his face looking aghast. 

But Derek doesn’t care. 

He physically could not give less of a fuck because standing there in the doorway, wrapped in his blue pyjamas with Benji the Penguin nestled in his arms and Wolf at his side, is the love of his life.  
- 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh shit. I'd say I'm sorry but I'm not. (I am a little bit) But I've been planning this for a long, long time. Ironically, Season Three's phrase is oddly fitting. This _is_ going to hurt.
> 
> See you soon guys :)


	19. Ships in the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you guys! Sorry for the really late update but it's 11:53 right now so that's technically Sunday right?
> 
> This week's song is one that I found about a week and a half ago and is now my current obsession. I saw it in not one but TWO Sterek videos and I am now convinced that it's their song, so you should check those videos out (I know that one is named after the song but I can't remember the other video's title).  
> 

  
[We're just fumbling through the grey, trying to find a heart that's not walking away.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BCkfTCjF8SM&list=PLgnxrTrD23zQLT9ILLqmwjuXZFWlp1MSr&index=23) 

-

It's almost as if time stands still for that one moment.

There's a silence present that's not really a silence, more of a terrible heady tension, and it vibrates in strong, hard waves through the air as Derek stares. 

It feels like preconceived artifice, like the thrilling cliff-hanger of your favourite novel, but at the same time, the utter realness of the situation, the utter _anguish_ of it all, barks against Derek's head. 

Isaac stands in the immobile in the doorway, eyes wide and stunned, with his mouth forming a small moue of confusion and disbelief and whatever the fuck else etching itself in the frown on his face. 

His little boy blinks twice and Derek can see the tears forming in his eyes and the feeling it gives him, just knowing that this time  _he's_ the one causing his son's pain, that _hurts_.

It's a wild feeling, dangerous and wounding, like a feral wolf baring its fangs in warning as clear, viscous saliva drips from its muzzle. 

It happens in a second, in just one tiny, insubstantial second but it’s more than enough. Isaac’s arms fall slack and Benji the Penguin plummets the short distance to the ground, dropping heavily on an unsuspecting Wolf, causing his paws to slide uselessly in his surprise on the dark stained wood flooring, before it finally makes contact with the ground. 

Wolf yelps in surprise, swings his head around to yap at Isaac in question but Isaac is already fleeing from the scene. Derek can hear the heavy pitter-patter of his bare feet on the floor as his son runs down the corridor, Wolf hot at his heels.

Derek heaves up and off the bed as soon as Isaac turns, completely determined to run after him and only he only remembers that he’s stark naked when the sheets slide off of his skin. 

He's running on autopilot really, and he stumbles off the bed, looking around wildly for his clothes before he pulls on his black sweatpants in despairing haste and moves towards the door.

 _Fuck_.

At the very edge of his vision Derek can see Stiles hastily pulling on his clothes but Derek’s already out of the door.

His world is crashing and burning around his ears, he can hear the door of Isaac’s room being slammed shut and so he immediately heads in his direction. 

He crashes his way down the hall, his pulse thunders relentlessly in his ears and he can already hear Isaac’s cries begin to echo through the apartment, like the ghosts of something past.

Derek’s mind instantly compares this situation to that one inconspicuous January Thursday, the one night that started this all off; where his son’s miserable cries were the only thing Derek's mind could process. 

His heart lurches and claws at his throat and he knows he’s fucked up everything.

Tears smart painfully in the back of his eyes but he trundles on even then, even when he feels sick to his stomach with worry.

He finds Wolf pawing uselessly at Isaac’s closed door; he hesitates for a tiny fraction of a second, utterly afraid of what he'll see before he takes a deep breath, straightens his shaking shoulders and opens the door with purpose. 

What he sees once he opens the door has him stumbling back a halfstep, his heart implodes and it sends shockwaves and fragments of hurt spearing and lashing and biting at his flesh.

His Isaac, his little Isaac, leans heavily against the side of his bed, as if he can’t even summon up the energy the climb up, and instead he kneels where he despairingly collapsed with his back to his father and an arm braced on the bed, his head pushed towards his chest, eyes shut tightly as he cries and Derek can see the weighty tremors wracking his body.

Wolf whines pitifully and shoves past Derek's frozen feet, where he stands watching his son with a detached sort of pain whilst the pup rushes against Isaac’s side, snuffling worriedly into his side. 

Derek moves then and his legs feel like they're weighted down by lead, but he moves anyway. He traverses the sea of navy carpeting between him and his son and he moves. 

He kneels awkwardly by the side of his son; his heart rate beats wildly in his chest as he reaches out a hand.

"Isaac?" Derek's hand barely touches his son's shoulders before Isaac is flinching and shouting and scrambling up on the bed away from Derek. 

The hurt from that flares in Derek's heart, it's sharp and blinding but he forces himself to push that away, forces himself to bury it until its nothing more than a dull throb because what's important now is his son. 

Isaac curls himself into a ball in the furthest corner of his bed, his small body _heaving_ with the force of his sons, Derek licks his lips, tastes the salt of his own tears, and he reaches for him. 

Isaac struggles as soon as he feels his father's searching hands, he twists and turns from Derek's grip: his face pushed into his covers and his fists grappling at the material. 

Derek doesn't want to hurt his son anymore than he already has, he _knows_ he should stop, give Isaac some time and some space but the selfish part of him _needs_ to have Isaac close, he _needs_ to wrap his son in his arms, huddle him against his warmth, kiss his curls, tell him he loves him and just _apologise_.

Derek needs to apologise, for today and so many other things, until he's blue in the face and his voice is nothing more than a weary rasp.

So he reaches for his son and he tries to pet his hair, to calm him down, and eventually he gently grasps his arms and pulls him from the bed and towards him. 

Words fall from Derek's lips like curses, like pleadings. Whispers of _"Isaac, please,"_ and _"I'm sorry, Daddy's so sorry,"_ float around the room without Derek's permission but they're lost anyway, underneath Isaac’s enraged shouts of _“No, no, let me go! Go away!”_

Isaac struggles against Derek's hold with his mouth scrunched up and fury in his eyes, he's hitting Derek too. His tiny fists are nothing to Derek's musculature and yet Derek bears each of his son's punches as if they held the weight of the most powerful creature on earth. 

Derek doesn't think he's ever seen Isaac this upset, never this tumultuous mix of anger and sadness and betrayal and it's all his fault. 

He wonders if there's any way back from this, any way that he and his son can come away from this as solidly intact as they were before. 

"I hate you!" Isaac screams in Derek's face, he's blushing furiously with an intense sort of sadness and he punctuates the statement with a firm kick to his father's stomach. 

Derek doesn't even register it though, his mind solely focused on those three words because Isaac has never, _ever_ said those words to Derek before, he's never had an occasion to. 

Derek is sure that the surprise on Isaac's face, as soon as the words finish their angry tumble from his mouth, is the same surprise that's reflected on his own face. 

They stare at each other for a long time, Derek with a slack numbness that spreads venom in his lungs, and Isaac with a fierce determination in holding on to his anger despite the fact that Derek can see his lip begin to tremble. 

His entire expression collapses in on itself as he begins to sob again, and Derek isn't entirely sure whether it’s because of what he said to his father or what his father _did_ but it hurts all the same. He falls limp in Derek's hold, like he can't even bring himself to struggle anymore, like the fight has been drained from him, and Derek hates that, hates the powerlessness and the vulnerability that seeps from his son so he puts him down on the bed, he can't fathom wanting to hold power over his son like that. 

Isaac instantly pushes himself back into the corner, he hides in his face in the crook of his arm as he sobs, and Derek doesn't know what to do, he stares dumbly at the shaking mass of his son. 

Stiles falls to the floor beside him, he'd forgotten all about Stiles actually and his presence now just brings in a whole other wave of guilt flooding through his system. Stiles' eyes are wet and wide and he's sniffling even as he pushes Derek's mobile phone into his hand. 

"You, you need to call someone Derek," he tells him, his eyes raking Derek's face with worry. " _Please_ call someone." 

Derek ends up walking out of the room, in the morning darkness of the hallway with bare feet on the cold tiles and his phone pressed tightly to his ear.

"What?" Erica sounds groggy and muffled down the line; Derek can hear her shifting in her sheets, "Derek?" 

The thing is though; Derek doesn't know what to say, he hasn't really thought beyond pressing his speed dial and having Erica's voice on the other end of the phone.

His breath catches in his throat and he leans back against the wall next to Isaac's door, he can hear him crying still. 

"Hello?" Erica sounds much more alert now, worry lacing her every word, if he concentrates enough, Derek can hear Boyd's nonsensical murmurings in the background. "Derek, for crying out loud.  _Say_ something! Are you alright?" 

“Erica,” Derek says eventually. “It’s Isaac. I- He won’t stop crying. I fucked up and he won’t stop crying, I don’t, I don’t know what to _do_. I need you.”

Derek has a hand fisted in his hair, pulling tightly against his scalp to try to diffuse the pain that leeches out from him in waves; it’s all he can do to not collapse.

“I’m coming,” she sounds panicked now and Derek hates that he’s the one who did this to her, the one who’s worrying her, he just doesn’t understand how his life has completely flipped in the space of a few hours.

The Derek that was in bed with Stiles this very same morning? He seems like a completely different person, and that seems like it was a whole different world not just mere  _minutes_ ago; had there really been such little time lapse?

“Derek? Are you still there?” Erica yells down the phone. “I’m coming okay? I’m coming.”  
-  
Derek eventually make his way back  into the room, he kneels by the side of Isaac bed watching helplessly as his little boy cries from where he's tucked in against the wall next to his bed, as far away from Derek as he can possibly be.

This time he doesn’t try to reach out to him, he merely watches with a severe numbness as Isaac works through the aftershocks of his crying, with Wolf tucked into the curve of his belly, mewling softly at the back of his throat and snuffling his muzzle beneath Isaac’s arm.  

Derek is so aloof to everything that he flinches when Stiles puts his hand on Derek’s shoulder, it's out of surprise rather than anything else, he just forgot that the world’s still ticking on despite the bubble of misery he’d created for himself, he’d forgotten for a little while that other people were affected by this also.

He looks up just in time to catch the look of hurt flickering across Stiles’ face and he feels terrible, none of this is Stiles’ fault, if anything it’s Derek’s for being so careless and for being so damn stupid as to hide his relationship from his son.

He catches Stiles’ hand as it begins to slide away from his shoulder and he squeezes it in reassurance, smiling sadly up at him. Stiles bites his lip and he ducks in, like he’s thinking of placing a kiss on Derek’s lips, just as he would any other time, but then he seems to remember precisely _why_ they’re in their current predicament.

Stiles straightens up and take a deep, cleansing breath before he squeezes Derek’s shoulder and slinks away to lean against the far wall.

They’re like that for a long time; Isaac and Wolf sprawled on the bed, Derek kneeled on the floor and Stiles leaning heavily against the wall. The air is fraught with tension and Derek doesn’t know how else to make this better, he isn’t sure that he _can_ make this better.

Moving back to Beacon Hills was supposed to be a new beginning, one without pain and hurt and betrayal and it _was_. That’s what makes it even harder because it _was_ until Derek fucked it up. It’s his fault and he almost welcomes the guilt that churns in his veins because he _knew_ that the choices he was making were inapt and illogical.

He’s an _analyst_ , it’s in his blood to work out the variables, to weigh out the good and the bad and yet he still chose the worse choice.

His son’s words blur together with his guilt and their combined misery in his mind, his head is pounding, a headache building up behind his eyes fast and sharp, nausea convulsing within the acid of his stomach.

Derek’s so loaded with nervous worry that he doesn’t even realise when Erica and Boyd stumble into the room.

They’re both clearly just out of bed, and it shocks Derek a little to realise that it’s still early in the morning, Boyd’s in a pair of pyjama pants and a hoodie hastily zipped up over his bare chest and Erica’s round bump protrudes from beneath her plaid button-up, hair wild and tumbling over her shoulders.

Derek hadn’t even heard the door open, neither had Stiles, if his startled expression is anything to go by. He stands up straight from the wall he succumbed to in his desperation, looking pallid and worried, eyes darting from Derek to the Boyd and Erica and back again.

There’s a tense few seconds as Boyd and Erica stand in the threshold taking stock of the entire scenery, surprise all over their faces.

Boyd snaps out of it first and he rushes into the room and places a hand, heavy with consolation, on Derek’s shoulder for a brief second before he’s moving to lean over him and grasp Isaac.

Isaac visibly tenses and his cries sharpen as soon as Boyd’s hands are on him but he relaxes instantly when Boyd’s murmurs quietly in his ear, letting his body go limp as Boyd fits his hands under both him and Wolf.

Recognising that his Uncle is not in fact his father, Isaac lets himself be hefted up by Boyd and he moulds himself to his shape, curling into him and whimpering his cries.

Derek feels like he has been through a thousand wars, it pains him to think how Isaac doesn’t want anything to do with him anymore, when all he wants is to bring his son close to his chest and whisper his apologies.

Wordlessly, Boyd carries Isaac and Wolf out of the room, pausing briefly by Erica as she kisses on of Isaac’s red cheeks.

Derek slowly rises and turns, rooted to his spot, as he watches them leave.

Erica stands in the threshold of the bedroom, watching Boyd and Isaac’s progress down the corridor with a fist clutched to her chest, channelling Isaac’s pain, and the other on the curve of her bump.

Derek swallows hard when he hears the almost-soundless click of the kitchen door closing shut, he hates himself for putting him in this situation, and he’s standing desolate and desperate when Erica turns back towards him.

Her brown eyes focus on Derek and surprise ripples through her face as her eyes sweep up his form; he'd completely forgotten his state of dress, naked for all but a pair of dark sweatpants.

Her brows furrow in confusion, but Derek can see the calculation in her eyes, he can see the facts slotting neatly into one cohesive, logical narrative in her mind as he stands before her, his skin bearing the marks made by Stiles’ mouth.

Derek can predict the utter onslaught of her temper even _before_ she swings her head to the side and locks her gaze to where Stiles is standing and understanding marks her face.

Stiles leans against the far wall of the room, palms flat against the paint and his knuckles tucked firmly in the small of his back, his shirt buttoned up all wrong, his hair is tousled in disarray, he’s sporting kiss-swollen lips and crimson bruises staining the pale colour of his throat.

Erica’s expression turns livid in the space of a single heartbeat; her eyes grow sharp and unforgiving, her voice hard and her eyebrows furrow.

“What did you do?” Erica hisses, and she takes a carefully controlled step into the room and she stands tall and angry, like Vesuvius trembling in imminent danger, ready to explode.

Derek doesn’t know what to do or what to say but his expression pleads for her to be calm.

“Erica-.” he begins feebly, his voice cracking under the pressure of her gaze, he searches his mind desperately for a way to explain, for a way to make it _okay_.

“Isaac saw?” She frowns in disbelief. “That’s why he’s upset, Derek? Because he saw you fucking his _nanny_?”

Stiles flinches at the sharp bite of her words and reverts his gaze to the ground, curling in on himself with cheeks blazing in embarrassment; it wasn’t like that, it _isn’t_ like that, and Derek’s mind isn’t working fast enough to pour all of the love, the friendship, the companionship that Stiles offers him into words.

There’s a long, tense second in which Derek doesn’t answer and his face grows more panicked, his cheeks flooding in heat because he feels like a damned fool, being scolded because he was lying to his best friend, to the people he loves and now it’s backfiring in a spectacular way.

Erica barks out a humourless laughter.

“You’re un- _fucking_ -believable, Derek,” she says and she presses her lips in a grave line, shaking her head in disappointment.

She stares Derek down so much so that he wants to crawl into the inside of his skin and never see the light of day again, he meets he gaze though, he figures that she deserves that much because this is Erica, his best friend and he might have messed up everything in his life but he’ll at least try to correct those mistakes now.

Erica grits her teeth, the hard line of her jaw protruding as she curls her lip and looks away from Derek. Her gaze hops all over Isaac’s room and lands on Stiles, she starts a bit, like she’d forgotten why she was so angry in the first place, before her face clenches in anger, “Get out.”

Stiles eyes fly up wide and startled as they lock with Erica’s callous stare, he opens his mouth to say something, _anything_ , but nothing other than silence leaves his mouth.

He stares helplessly at Erica, his chest heaving and eyes glossed with unshed tears, his bottom lips is completely ravaged from his worrying it at it, Derek just wants to go to him, to hold him and comfort him but he’s pretty sure that Erica would have a conniption if he did, so he bears down on the urge for now.

Erica fully turns to Stiles after several long moments of his stasis and she fumes, “Are you deaf, Stiles?”

“It’s not his fault-” Derek begins to say, his hands twitching towards them uselessly because he loves them both, but he’ll absolutely not let Erica place the blame on Stiles.

He can feel the salted tear tracks cooling on his face and Derek is sure that he looks ravished and desolate, but he continues anyway, “Erica, it’s not his fault.”

“Don’t,” she warns, turning her fury onto him. “There is absolutely nothing that you could possibly say to make this better.”

Derek stills and subdues instantly, there is venom infused in her voice that Derek dares not mess with; he hasn’t seen this particular expression on Erica’s face for years now, this mixture of anger and treachery.

She looks enraged, like the fury itself took root in her heart to spew hatred and vitriol from her gaze, spitting fiery trails of words everywhere she goes.

She turns back to Stiles and she enunciates her command only once more, “Get. _Out_.”

Stiles’ gaze lock with Derek for the briefest of seconds, Derek nods imperceptibly, it's better that he deals with Erica alone for now, and Stiles scampers out of the room.

The long silence pulsing in and around Isaac’s bedroom is broken only by the quiet sound of the front door opening and closing. 

Erica points a single finger in Derek’s direction.

“Go get dressed and make yourself decent,” she says, her voice low and still. “Or so help me god, Derek, I will rip out your spleen.”

She turns on her heel and marches off to the kitchen and Derek can hear how her voice softens as she opens the door to the kitchen, before silence descends once again.

-

Derek heads into his room, throws on the first shirt that he sees before he rushes to the bathroom and splashes water on his face, hardly even noticing the scalding temperature of it, he presses his fingers to his eyelids until colours burst in the darkness.

He stands there for a long time, just thinking, _breathing_ and trying to stave off the oncoming panic. He shakes his head, wipes his face off with a towel and reaches for his toothbrush instead.

There’s plenty of time to panic later, he thinks, but right now his son needs him.

Derek finishes up the bathroom quickly, he doesn’t bother to shave and instead he makes his contrite way to the kitchen. He pauses at the closed door though, despite his body screaming at him to barge in, he doesn’t want to startle Isaac, so he takes a deep breath and he knocks lightly on the door.

He gently pushes it open when he doesn’t hear anything but he finds the kitchen completely empty, tranquil, silent and untouched. Derek tries to ignore the uncomfortable way that his heart wrenches and instead he forces his shaking legs to make their way down the hall and around the corner to his son’s room.

The door is open and the soft morning light spills over the threshold, Erica’s the only one in the room though, leaning over Isaac’s messy bed folding clothes to put in Isaac’s small suitcase.

“What are you doing?” Derek asks when he comes to a stop in the middle of the room, toes digging into the carpet. “Where’s Isaac?”

Erica turns to look at him over her shoulder then, she doesn’t look all that angry any more, just sad and a little bit disappointed, “In my car. We’re taking him for the weekend.”

“No,” a flash of indignation courses along Derek. “You can’t do that.”

“Derek,” Erica says, she sighs and turns towards him. “I know you want him near but you-. He doesn’t want to see you right now, he _told_ me he doesn't want to see you; he needs space, so you’re going to do this,  _for him_.”

She turns back and begins to pack away Isaac’s things with an eerie calmness, though Derek can see the strained composure in the stiff line of her shoulders and the clinical detachment to her movements.

Erica's always been better at him in high pressured situations, she has that ability to be calm and fierce and tolerable whereas he tends to go blazing in with no consideration for the consequences. It’s why they’ve always worked so well, with Boyd being the rational stasis that drives their trio to triumph.

But as much as Derek understands their dynamic and why it makes them successful as friends, at times like this it grates on his every nerve, how Erica is able to be so _unruffled_ about this.  

“How long?” Erica asks quietly, she stops in her ministrations but she doesn’t turn to look at him.

Derek takes a deep breath, this is what he’s been dreading, “Just a little while after Isaac got lost.”

He sees Erica straighten up, he can see her set her shoulders and tip her head back, and he knows she’s probably holding back tears but he doesn’t move to comfort her.

“That was _months_ ago, Derek.”

“I know,” he says and he wishes he didn’t have to talk to her back. “I know, okay? But I didn’t know how to tell you, and we wanted to be together for at least a little while before we told everyone. It wasn’t because I don’t trust you.”

Erica huffs a bitter laugh, “Don’t give me that bullshit.”

Derek can see the tension rolling into her body, “It’s not bullshit. You _know_ that. I trust you with my life.”

“But not with this,” she says her hands going up to her face, to wipe away her tears.

“Erica-”

“You’re supposed to put yourself first, _Derek,_ ” Erica cries, and she rounds on him with her blonde curls flying wildly in a frizzy mess and tears stinging her eyes. “It’s why you moved back to Beacon Hills in the first place. _This_? This is not putting yourself first. You just _barely_ got away from Kate the _fucking psycho_ and now you’re fucking your son’s _nanny_?”

“That’s not what it is,” Derek says resolutely. “It’s more than that.”

“So what, you’re not sleeping together?” she tips her head to the side in faux-inquisitiveness.

“We are but-”

Erica scoffs disbelievingly; she rolls her eyes and crosses her arms tightly across her chest as Derek continues.

“We are, but that’s not what our relationship is about,” Derek tells her firmly. “I’m in love with him, Erica.”

“Love?” She asks, and she widens her eyes sardonically, just as he juts out his chin defensively.

She just shakes her head, “No, Derek. This is isn’t love. This is you latching on the very first person that gives you slightest bit of attention after the _disaster_ that is your life.”

Erica was always able to find the most effective ways to cut Derek down, and this time it’s no different, the words splinter in his mind and jar at the insides of his skull.

He looks away from her, too angry to even breathe because he knows that isn’t true. He loves Stiles, he knows he does, but the niggling doubt of his self-worth just harks and throbs in the space between his lungs.

"That's not fair," Derek says. He tips his head back, closes his eyes tightly for a brief second and bites down savagely at his bottom lip. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?”

“I love him, Erica.”

“Does he love you?” Erica bites back, face lively with anger and Derek’s chest constricts with the utter disbelief in her face.

“Yes.”

That in itself makes her pause and she searches Derek’s face, her own expression turning to one of recognition as she sees the truth in him; Derek can practically see the way that her mind works, the way that she’s re-evaluating the last few months in her head; the way that she’s attributing the change in both Stiles and Derek to their secret tryst.

He thinks he spies grudging acceptance in her expression but he doesn’t dwell on it, he doesn’t want to be crushed with the disappointment if it turns out that she resolutely hates the idea of Stiles and Derek together.

Derek knows that Erica’s like a lit fuse, she burns bright and heady at first, fast and dangerous like a comet through space but she always calms down, after, she'll always pulls back from her anger to work out through the problem.

“This still doesn’t make it okay,” Erica says. “You might genuinely be in love with each other but you still lied to me, to _everyone_.”

Derek doesn’t say anything in reply but it doesn’t matter anyway because Erica is on a roll, her voice is drained and tired as she speaks to him.

“What did you think Derek?” she asks. “That this was going to turn out with a big happy ending all packaged up in a fucking bow for you to keep? This isn’t a fairytale; you’re not going to be riding off into the fucking moonlight together, okay? This is going to be hard and heartbreaking, mostly because you _lied_ to us.”

The verbal silence that ensues is punctuated by the sharp, teary inhales of both Derek and Erica. They face each other and there’s so much raw pain hanging in a precarious balance in the stale air between them that Derek can feel the distance between them like a physical ache.

“You know,” Erica’s voice cuts through the quiet, worn down with fatigue and helplessness. “I actually though that for once in your life you’d use that big brain of yours, but. I- I can’t do this again, Derek.”

Her voice breaks and she shrugs helplessly at him, tears gathering along her bottom lashes. “I can’t.”

Derek’s heart shrivels into an unrecognisable ball; he’s fucked up everything, even more so than he felt possible.

He doesn’t want to lose Erica; he can’t lose her, not after everything they’ve been through.

It's at times like this that he feels like he's infecting and hurting everyone aorund him, like poison.

A void opens up deep in his gut and it has the distinct shape of Erica so Derek stares numbly at the ground, mouth tightening against the wounded whimpers clawing their way up his throat as his cheeks re-colour with wretchedness.

Erica takes careful steps forward until she’s standing right in front of Derek but he doesn’t look up.

He adamantly _refuses_ to look up because he refuses to see the disappointment in her face.

So, he clasps his hands in front of him and keeps quiet.

“I can’t watch you do this to yourself all over again,” Erica continues. “Destroying yourself because of lies and half-truths, because you don’t think you deserve nice things. I’m not going to let it happen. So don’t _you_ , Derek James Hale, think for one fucking second that I will let you destroy everything you have built up so far.”

Derek’s gaze flies to hers in surprise, steely determination makes a home in her expression and she tilts her chin up defiantly.

“I’m going home now with Isaac and Boyd,” she says. “I do _not_ want to hear from you this weekend. I want you to have a very long think about what you and Stiles are doing and the hurt you’ve caused your son. I want you to think about that, Derek, and I want you to  _sort your shit out_.”

Her voice is stern and unforgiving, but she wraps her hands around Derek anyway and presses in close, he bump nestled between them as he ducks down and wraps his arms around her in his relief.

“I mean it,” she mumbles against his hair. “Come near me and I will kick your ass straight back into the hellhole it came from.”

He can’t help but laugh at that, it’s tired and watery but it’s chocked full of gratuitous relief, “I’m sorry.”

She tightens her grasp and pushes her forehead against his, locking gazes.

“I love you, Derek but I seriously can’t stand you right now,” she says. “I’m not mad that you have someone, of course I’m not. I’m mad that you've both been keeping secrets from everyone for all this time. Understand?”

He averts his gaze, nodding gravelly but his heart unclenches a little bit, “I’m sorry.”

She kisses his temple firmly before she disentangles herself from him. Derek misses her comfort instantly but he presses his lips together and stands straight.

“I’ll see you soon?” He can’t quite help the note of hopefulness in his voice.

Erica nods, smiling sadly and she says, “I’ll see you on soon.”

She leaves him standing alone in his apartment, the heaviness of the front door shutting with a definitive finality that makes him collapse to his son’s bed and drop his head in to the palms of his hands. 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there it was, super angsty no? But next chapter will be more fluffy, I hope. But yeah, we'll have some more Erica/Derek interaction and Isaac/Derek and of course Stiles/Derek but yeah it'll be good - until then guys! :)


	20. The Long Haul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! 
> 
> Warnings for Kate Argent and her doucheyness as well as mentions of PTSD. If you're interested in the studies I used for my research for this chapter I'll be linking them in the end notes! :)  
> This week's song gives me chills, it's by a band called NO and their official youtube channel is called "NOMUSICFORYOU" and if that doesn't make you happy, then I don't now what will. :) Enjoy!

[Stand yourself by me, we'll fall until we're free. This helium prefers no ceiling.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QeFkqRL186w&list=PLgnxrTrD23zQLT9ILLqmwjuXZFWlp1MSr)

-

By the time that Derek finally blinks back into focus, Isaac’s room is bright with sunlight and stifling hot, the shadows on the floor just beginning to lengthen. Derek sits there, in his son's room, for a long, _long_ time, losing track of the seconds and of the way that the sun shifts in the sky. 

He's been doing that a lot lately, losing himself in the moment; and whilst some moments are almost unbearably wholesome, like falling into the warm weight of Stiles draped over his back or gently rocking Isaac back to sleep as he snuffles into Derek's neck in the middle of the night, the bad times far outweigh the good. 

There's a loss of control in his life that makes Derek feel like he's tethered to the ground, like he's unable to escape. It makes him feel uneasy, as if his skin doesn't fit quite right over his bones. 

This specific feeling though, this inadequacy, is something that gained speed when he was wrapped up with Kate in the throes of violence and hatred, it broke down all of his defence mechanisms and made him an almost robotic shell of himself.

But even Derek knows that this feeling was present in his life _far_ before that.

Derek can't even count the amount of times he's let somebody else take the reigns over his life. His family has always been more invasive than normal; privacy is a little known thing between them and personal space far less so.

It's never really bothered Derek, seeing as it was the only thing he'd ever known, and even when he had inevitably strayed from the expectations of his family, he's always had someone on the other side of the line to help him make the leap into _personal_ choice, be it his father or Lydia or even more recently, Stiles. 

He knows that his family mean well, but they work like a well-attuned machine, every decision is made in a precise, calculated way and configured into what _they_ want as a collective. Derek isn’t too surprised that they don't know how to deal with him, an anomaly of sorts, and everything that he's become after his trauma. 

Derek scrubs his hands over his face, blinks back the blinding brightness of the day as his stubble prickles at the soft skin of his palm, and he _thinks_. 

He realises with tired awe that this is the only time he's had, since Kate, to truly be alone and to actually be able to think things through with care.

Almost every moment in the past couple of months has had him either by his son's side or busying himself to actively _not_ think about everything that has happened.

It’s terrifying to tap into that particular nook in the corner of his mind; like opening an old memory tome: it’s bulky, dusty and fragile but the binding is falling apart, it has to be handled with caution as the softened weaves unravel with every single beat of Derek’s heart.

The thing is that with Kate, he was never really scared, not for the things that she did or _could_ do to him. The fear was a completely different manifestation, it was more of a grudging acceptance, acceptance of him acting as a barrier between her and his son, where Isaac's protection was Derek's only duty. 

He had spent a lot of days in the dark, lying next to his old love and hating himself for letting her do this to him, for letting himself fall into her trap again and again, gravitating towards the faint flicker of affection in her eyes with desperate hope. 

He hated himself because he knew it wasn't real, he knew that it was only a matter of time until she snapped and he caught the brunt of her anger; and yet Derek knows that if the choice was between him and his son, he would go through it three times over if it kept him safe.

But now that they're back in Beacon Hills and Isaac _is_ safe Derek is at a loss for what he should do and how he should act.

He's always hated confrontation, and he would happily live the rest of his life without having a single argument. His life, however, seems to have different plans and more often than not Derek finds himself in the midst of conflict with guns blazing and no clear target in sight. 

He's always been competent at lashing out at Laura, giving it as good as he got, in a way that he never could with Erica. 

They're like the three strands of a tightly corded braid, much too dependent on each other to put up a strong front and they’re intrinsically linked in that respect.

Derek trusts the two of them with his _life_ , more so than anyone else he knows, but the absolute candour that they have between them has always doubled up as a well aimed kick in the gut in the middle of an argument. 

They know exactly what to say to be able to make each other angry and they've always used the things that they know as weapons, even Derek, though he's ashamed to admit it. 

It's never really been a problem, it’s been a part of who they were ever since Erica moved in to the Hale house all those years ago. They're like three firecrackers in one enclosed space but they’ve always been safe in the knowledge that the taunts and the jibes would be easily forgotten and forgiveness easily granted. 

But it's not the same anymore; _Derek_ is not the same anymore and just because he refuses to acknowledge that fact doesn't mean that he doesn't know how utterly messed up he is, how bleak his outlook on life now is. 

Derek has a son now, one who is more dependent on him than Erica and Laura will ever be, and he will always, _always_ put Isaac first. 

It won't be easy for Erica and Laura to break out of their habits, to realise that they can’t act like they always have, but Derek will be damned if he cares however because it hasn't been easy for _him_ either. 

It wasn't easy for him to admit his faults, it damn well wasn't easy watching his son colour black and blue from the anger of his own mother's hands and it certainly wasn't easy for Derek to be able settle enough in himself to let somebody else into his life, somebody who makes him happy. 

Derek can feel the resolve stir low in his gut; it's a heady, powerful sort of feeling. Derek may not like confrontation but he has always liked the steady, calm feeling of power that settles over his skin whenever he’s in control of his life.

That’s what’s been missing in his life for a long time now and it’s what he needs to regain any semblance of normality in his life; the way that his sister and his best friend have been acting lately is something that’s made him highly aware of that fact.

Derek is pretty much done with people wanting to control his life, wanting him to fit neatly into their boxed up expectations. It’s not who he is, it’s _never_ been who he is, but the past few years have weakened his resolve.

That’s what grates him the most he thinks, that his family don’t think he can function anymore; the fact that they need to coddle him to the point where it’s suffocating, until he can’t even breathe right in his own skin.

He understands their concern, he does, but he also knows he’s not going to fall apart. He picked himself up every single day that he was with Kate, and he _dealt_ with it, and he’s going to make damn sure that the does the same now that he has freedom from her.

It’s this thought that has him finally get up, his limbs stiff but determined as he walks through his apartment towards his bedroom.

He picks up Benji the Penguin, still discarded in the threshold and he feels a pang of guilt, but Derek knows better now. He knows that what he’s doing is the right thing and that the way forward is not one paved with secrets and lies.

He knows better now.

The first thing that he does is find his phone, he digs it out of the pocket of his jeans, where it hangs off the edge of the bed, one solitary leg doing it’s damnedest to remain afloat, and he scrolls through his contacts.

He sends a terse text to Erica, telling her that he’ll soon be picking up Isaac in what he hopes is a firm tone that brokers no argument. He’s not really expecting a reply, but he'll most probably ignore any of her protestations nevertheless.

Derek knows that his son is angry at him, more hurt than anything else, but the day was stressful for Isaac and he doesn’t deal well with stress, much less after everything that's happened in the last few months.

So should Isaac suffer from night terrors later on in the night, partly caused by the stress that he experienced during the day, Derek is going to make damn sure that he’s by his son’s side.

Derek is going to take Isaac home, he’s going to feed him supper and wash his hair and rock him to sleep, hoping and praying that his normal calming routine will keep the terrors away, and then tomorrow they’re going to talk.

He has no idea how on earth he’s going to do it, but he will. He’s going to sit his son down and talk about the shit-storm that is Kate Argent and he’s going to talk about Stiles and what it’s going to mean for them because that’s the least that Isaac deserves.

Of course, he could wait until they see Doctor Morrell on Friday but Derek has been running from his problems for a long time now, so he sets his shoulders straight and decides that he’s going to deal with it himself because he has no other choice.

He slips into the shower first, turns the temperature to just barely higher than lukewarm so that the cool water runs over his skin and washes away the clammy stickiness that clings to him. He presses his hands to his face and he just breathes, slow and steady, before he closes his eyes and turns his face towards the spray.

He feels what he needs to do manifest in almost transparent weaves of energy in his head, and he’s sure that they only makes sense because they are contained in his own mind, verbalising them is probably next to impossible but to Derek it’s crystal clear.

It’s almost like the water washes away not only the stuffiness of the stressful morning but also the remaining vestiges of his feelings of incompetence. It’s a good feeling, it settles nicely in the centre of his chest but it’s still tentative, still brittle.

He dresses quickly, barely paying attention to what he’s pulling on as he nearly vibrates with the nervous need to see his son again. He sweeps up his keys and his phone, texting _I’ll call you tonight_ to Stiles as he heads down the hall.

Derek’s steps are determined and quick, black sneakers treading over the tiles of the corridor, he tucks his phone in his pocket before he yanks the door open, just about ready to stride over the threshold when he realises that there's someone on the other side.

Lydia stands in front of Derek, confusion marring her face and a fist raised in the air like she was just about to knock on the door.

She looks behind her, red ponytail sweeping over her shoulder, before she looks back over to Derek.

“In a rush to get somewhere?” Lydia asks, eyebrows raised slightly, then she takes stock of Derek’s face and she turns serious all at once. “What’s wrong?”

-

Lydia settles in at Derek’s kitchen table as he goes about making them coffee. She’s looks tired, understated and dressed entirely casual, in a pair of blue jeans, a white woollen sweater, pale pink ballet flats and no jewellery in sight.

“I drove from the city,” Lydia tells him, stretching over the table before curling back into her perfected poise. “Laura called me about some argument or other you two had, so I came to pick her up. She’s going to spend a couple of days with me.”

Derek hooks the handles of two coffee mugs over his finger and takes the coffee pot to the table, “She didn’t tell you what the argument was about?”

Lydia levels Derek with flat look, but she pulls the mugs towards her and begins to pour their coffee, waiting until Derek comes back with the milk and the sugar to start speaking.

“Of course not, Laura is a lot of things but a tattle-tale is not one of them,” she says. “Which is why I came to see you first. I wanted to see if you were alright; it sounds like it was a pretty nasty fight.”

Derek nods, waits patiently before he takes the proffered mug from her hands. It really is too hot to hold it in the palm of his hands as he is, even with the milk that Lydia poured into the mug, but the heat is practically the only thing that’s grounding him at the minute.

Lydia is only holding her mug with the fingers of one hand wrapped around the handle and the fingertips of the other settled gingerly towards the top.

With Lydia there’s no pressure to spill the words that tumble around his mind in a mess, she’s patient and she’s secure in the knowledge that it might take a while, but that Derek will always want to speak when he’s ready.

So she merely shakes the burn from her fingers every few moments as she sips at her coffee, almost dismissing Derek to his own thoughts.

It’s not until their mugs are halfway drained of coffee that he speaks, and even then the only thing he says is, “Stiles.”

Lydia’s eyes snap back to his, she frowns a little, “What about him?”

Derek’s never been good at talking. Well, he can _talk_ just fine, he can snark and tease with the best of them and he does it quite frequently in fact, but he’s not and never has been good at effectively _communicating_.

It’s partly what got him into this mess, the other part being boneheaded foolishness, but he intends to rectify that now even if that means being utterly frank with the people around him.

Derek knows the precise moment when everything slots into place for Lydia, he can see the proverbial light of understanding shine from behind her eyes, and he forces himself to keep eye contact with her despite the coil of nervousness in stomach.

“Oh,” is all that Lydia says for a while, she squints her eyes and places her mug down as she thinks.

She’s probably already figured out that that’s why Isaac isn’t at home. The whole apartment feels altogether too cold and quiet, much too large without him around.

“You and Stiles are together,” she says eventually and he nods. “And that’s why you and Laura had an argument.”

“And Erica,” Derek admits. “They found out before I could tell them. They didn’t take it too well.”

Lydia leans towards Derek, placing her arms in front of her and regards him keenly, “What happened with Erica?”

It takes a little while but Derek eventually manages to detail the events of the morning to her, he stutters and stammers his way through it, gulping back waves of guilt when he tells her about Isaac’s reaction, but he finally does manage to tell her all of it.

Lydia is quiet for a long time as she thinks; Derek knows she’s just sorting through what he’s told her. He tells her that he's planning to go get Isaac, he doesn't want him to be alone you see and she nods absently, murmuring,  _‘That’s good, that's. That's what you should be doing.’_  

She pauses for a moment more, she presses her lips together, looks at him.

“Deej, you’re happy?” Her voice is soft and balanced as she tips her head to the side, ponytail swishing behind her, spilling over her shoulder. “With Stiles, I mean, he’s not hurting you, right?”

“No,” Derek immediately assures. “Of _course_ not; I’m happy Lyd, he makes me happy.”

“Then I don’t see what the problem is,” Lydia says and Derek breathes a sigh of relief, he’s so damn comforted by her reaction that he has to hide a smile behind his hand.

“I mean, obviously I _know_ what the problem is,” Lydia continues, rolling her eyes as she mutters to herself. “Secondary PTSD is what it is but I just didn’t know that _they_ were experiencing it.”

Lydia trails off after a while, seemingly conducting the conversation in her head and forgetting to relay it to Derek, so he prompts, “What do you mean?”

She tunes him back in, blinks, “What?”

“What do you mean?” he enunciates slowly, can’t help but bite back a grin at the distinctively unimpressed look she throws him.

She rolls her eyes and runs a fist through her ponytail, she’s nervous Derek now realises.

Lydia always fiddles with the strands of her hair when she's nervous, he’s seen it countless times as they’ve grown up, and as they’ve worked together, she does it almost constantly before they walk into a meeting with potential big-money clients. 

“ _Lydia_.”

“Look. When we all first found out what Kate had done,” she begins. “I did a lot of research. I mean a _lot_ , D.J. and there was this condition I found, though not a lot of investigation has been done on it.”

Derek can hear the undertones of annoyance lacing her words; Lydia likes to be nothing short of thorough.

He can’t help but be touched by the amount of effort she must have put into it all, touched that she actually even bothered to research it for him.

“I wanted to be able to help you through it, I didn’t want you to be stranded by yourself in this,” she explains, smiling a little. She straightens her spine and claps her hands in front of her. “Secondary PTSD is when the family members of someone who has gone through a trauma begin to, to sort of _mirror_ their anxiety in a way.”

Derek ducks his head, nods as he takes it all in and Lydia pauses and watches Derek with worry in her eyes but she doesn’t speak until Derek looks up and gives another, firm nod.

“There was a study in Utah about war veterans that helped confirm it. It’s not an _exact_ science,” Lydia says. “And like I said the research of impacts of trauma on surrounding family members is lacklustre to say the least, but it does sort of make sense if you think about it.”

She sighs and leans further forward, slipping her hands into his, “I know it’s been hard for you and I know that you’ve been particularly-,” she pauses, searching for the right phrasing, “You’ve been very  _careful_ lately.”

Derek snorts inelegantly and puts his head down on the cool surface of the table, muttering, “That’s one way to put it.”

Derek’s not an idiot, he's very aware of the neurotic way he’s been living his life in the past few months; where compulsively locking and relocking, checking and rechecking the doors and windows of his apartment is barely the tip of the iceberg.

It’s like an itch beneath his skin, nagging him to make sure, just one more time, just to make sure.

“Sweetie, it’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Lydia untangles her hands from his and cards her fingers through his damp hair, “You’ve dealt with it far better than a lot of people could. But this hyper-vigilance thing you’ve got going on, it's not healthy, Derek. And it might be bleeding into how Laura and Erica act around you. It’s like they’re slipping into a role without really noticing. So this whole thing with Stiles isn't probably because they don’t like him or that they don’t trust _you_. It’s just that-”

“They don’t exactly trust that everything with Kate won’t happen again,” Derek interrupts, looking up at Lydia from his spot on the table surface.

“I think so,” Lydia nods a little sadly and she smiles ruefully, “They’ve never really been good at dealing with serious problems, have they?”

Derek shakes his head against the table, breathing in deep, “So what do I do about it?”

“ _You_ don’t do anything,” Lydia tugs lightly on his hair, the rounded tips of her manicured nails against his scalp and he looks up at her. “The way they’ve been acting is because they have no idea how to deal with happened, but it’s not your fault and it’s certainly not your responsibility either. _You_ just worry about looking after you and Isaac, okay?”

Derek nods and she smiles, sliding her hands from his hair.

“It doesn’t excuse their behaviour,” she tells him firmly. “It doesn’t excuse it, because it was fucking atrocious Deej, and you shouldn't stand for that. From anyone, do you hear me? But, _but_  that being said, it does explain it a little.”

Derek pushes himself to a sitting position, he’s glad he ran into Lydia today, she always has a knack for telling him the facts, without mincing her words; she’s always been good at letting him decide for himself and that’s exactly what he needs.

“Yeah, I know,” Derek sighs and he smiles at her. “Thanks Lyd.”

“You’re welcome,” she punctuates her words with two perfunctory pats on his cheek. “Now, go get your son.”

It’s not until they’re in the elevator, heading down towards the ground floor that Lydia asks, “How _did_ Laura find out about you and Stiles?”

Derek’s cheeks burn red, and he looks at her from the corner of his eyes, “She found my condoms.”

“What?” Lydia clamours, eyes bugging with incredulous disbelief as she stares at Derek and he has to bite back a grin at the horrified expression on her face." _What?_ "

She’s still staring at him when the lift rolls to a stop and the doors open with a brusque _ding_ , “You-? Are you actually are a teenage boy? You're ridiculous Deej, I swear I don’t even why I associate myself with you.”

She pushes him into the side of the elevator and saunters out towards the door, leaving Derek to follow in her wake.

-

Derek pulls into the driveway of Erica and Boyd’s house not twenty minutes later; he kills the engine and sits in the car for a few moments, breathing in deep and even to gather courage.

Erica opens the door just as he climbs out of the car, she’s barefooted and standing just inside her hallway, she’s changed out of her pyjamas and her arms are crossed over her chest, resting over the smooth curve of her bump.

It’s a whole different kind of awkward as Derek approaches, there’s a silence between them that hasn’t been this strained since back when he was still in love with Kate and arguments with Erica were a common thing.

When he gets close enough, she tilts her head and motions for him to go inside. He heads straight to the kitchen, he can hear the television in the living room and he guesses that that’s where Isaac is but he doesn’t go in just yet.

Derek crosses his arms as he leans against the counter, before he uncrosses them again, letting them hang idle at his side but then he feelsawkward, so he clenches them around the hem of his shirt.

Erica pads into the kitchen behind him, carding her fingers through her hair as she puts it up in a low bun. The nervousness is more than palpable between them.

“Boyd not home?” Derek asks despite that he knows that he isn’t; making small talk was never really his forte. The words sound stilted and forced and the air brittle between them.

“No,” Erica shakes her head, she doesn’t look angry anymore; just tired and repentant, her voice soft and measured. “He’s out with some friends from work.”  

Derek hums in acknowledgement before they lapse into an uncomfortable silence, the sounds of the cartoons playing in the living room filtering through the walls.

He can see the tinge of blue veins beneath the thin skin around her eyes and the way that she’s clenching her jaw tight betrays the headache that’s pressing against her skull.

But he’s still vexed by the way that she acted the morning previously, he’s not particularly looking forward to the following conversation but he knows that this is one of the things he’s going to have to do if he wants to regain command of his wayward life.  

Erica brings her hand back up to her face, fingertips smudging over her eye socket, and she chews on her bottom lip, fidgeting in the silence, “Derek-.”

“You need to apologise to Stiles,” Derek interrupts and he stuffs his hands in his pockets as he looks at Erica squarely in the eyes. “What you said wasn’t fair and he didn’t deserve it.”

“I know, and I will,” she nods and she sighs, long and drawn out and she seems to deflate all at once. She looks up at him, smiles bitterly, “I can be a real piece of work, right?”

“I know that you’re trying to help,” Derek assures, and he looks down at his shoes. “But-. What you’re doing is not making it any better.”

He can see Erica nod solemnly in his peripheral vision, “I’m sorry. I _know_ that that sounds contrived but I really, really am, Derek. I- I’ve never been good at this, at being _there_ for someone, you know that. But I’m trying, I am. ”

Derek’s eyes flicker up to rest on her, where she stands on the other side of the counter space, nervous apprehension colouring her brown eyes and a hesitant smile on her lips.

Standing as she is, hands curled at her side, chest puffed out and determination marking her face, Derek wants nothing but to wrap himself around her in a hug and forget this ever happened. “Stiles is a good man.”

“I _know_ that.”

“Then _why_ , Erica?” Derek interjects; he runs his fingers through his hair with frustration. “I don’t understand why you’re so angry about this.”

“Oh, give me _some_ credit,” she retaliates, she takes a deep, calming breath before she addresses him again. “I only found out about it this morning, _this morning_ Derek, and only because your son was in hysterics about it.”

“We were going to tell you, obviously we were, Erica,” Derek tells her. “But we just needed some time. For ourselves, we might not even have worked but I needed to know that _before_ I told everybody else.”

Erica bites her lip, looks away from him and crosses her arms over her chest.

“I’m just worried about you,” she admits, breath catching around her words. “I don’t want you to-.”

She cuts herself off sharply, rubbing a hand over her bump absently as she presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth.

Derek knows what she was about to say anyway and he blanches. He doesn’t even bother to hide the hurt in his eyes as he stares at Erica.

“What, you think I’d put myself though that again?” he balks. “After knowing what it did to me this time, to my _son_ , you think I’d fall into a situation like that again?”

“No, Stiles wouldn’t – I,” she pauses, seems to think better of it and levels Derek with a stern look. “You stayed with her as a fucking _punishment_ to yourself, Derek. You let her hurt you and pull you down because you were paying some kind of fucked up penance for being wrong about the kind of person you thought she was, like it was your punishment for falling in love with her.”

Derek’s mind shorts out in his astonishment. He hadn’t even been able to admit that to himself, never mind anyone else and it hurt to have it spelled out so simply; like it was absolutely nothing.

He wonders if he was always like this, if everyone around him could always see him for what he really is.

“I was terrified that she was going to take my son away from me,” Derek says, and he remains adamant. “This is not the same thing, Stiles is _nothing_ like her and even if he was, you think I’d let anyone like that near Isaac again?”

“Of course not.”

“I'm in love with him, Erica,” Derek emphasises, and his lips quirk into a hesitant smile. “He makes me feel better than I have in _years_ , and we’re so good together, god, I want to make this _work_. But it’s going to be damn hard if everybody fights me on this every step of the way.”

“I know,” Erica sighs. “It’s just. Derek, you’re my _brother_ , and she, she  _hurt_ you; I know that the way I’m going about it is probably not helping, but I can’t help it. I can’t just switch it off.”

“You’re going to have to,” Derek asserts. “If not for my sake then for Isaac’s and for Stiles’.

She nods once in agreement and opens her mouth to say something else but Derek speaks over her.

“It took so much for me to be able to even be with Stiles,” he divulges, pleading her to understand. “It took a lot of time and a lot of effort, we’re both laden with problems but we’re working through it _together_. He’s what I want Erica, and I love you but I’m not going to argue with you about _my_ decision to be with him.”

“Yeah,” Erica presses his lips together to form a tight line, nods and blinks far too much. “Yeah, I guess I deserved that.”

“Yeah, you did,” Derek says but he wraps a hand around her wrist and pulls her into a hug.

She wraps her arms around him, her bump nestled into the hard line of his stomach, and they cling to each other tightly. It feels like things are falling into place for Derek now and he feels almost rejuvenated in his command.  

It’s strange but he’s almost glad for the way that Erica and Laura acted because had it not been for that it would have taken him longer to realise how much inert he had been about his own life lately.

“I’m an idiot,” Erica mumbles into Derek’s shoulder.

“Yes, you are.”

“Would it be really douchey if I told you how proud I am of your new found assertiveness?”

He presses his face into her hair and he smiles a little, “Totally douchey.”

She relaxes into him, the awkwardness and the tension between them dissipating little by little. Derek isn’t foolish enough to believe that this will be the end of it, they still have a lot of issues to work through, with the over protectiveness and the coddling, but this feels like a fresh start.

“This unwavering conviction you’ve got going on is making me _very_ attracted to you,” she mumbles.

"Shut up."

She burrows her face into his shoulder, muffling a deeptumble of laughter. She squeezes him firmly before pulls away a little and her expression slips into seriousness, “I’m really sorry.”

“I know.”

Erica heads up the stairs to get Isaac’s suitcase from the guest bedroom, as Derek makes his careful way over to the living room.

Isaac is sitting on the couch; Wolf curled up next to him, eating the second half of a peanut butter sandwich with his eyes trained on the television.

His eyes swivels towards his father when he appears in doorway. He tenses immediately before he carefully places his sandwich back on to the plate, balanced precariously on the arm of the couch, and watches as Derek approaches with wary eyes.

When Derek crouches in front of him, he’s close enough to hear how Isaac’s breath hitches at the back of his throat with each inhale and Derek hates that Isaac is still angry with him.

“Hey, puppy,” Derek says gently and he lifts his hand to stroke Isaac’s cheek and his heart crumbles in his chest cavity when Isaac flinches.

It’s an unconscious reaction, he ducks away from Derek’s hand and Derek realises that the wariness that Isaac was displaying as he walked in wasn’t anger, it was _fear_.

He's undeniably scared of how Derek is going to react to him and Derek sighs, feeling terribly sad as he regards his son. He gently cups the side of Isaac’s face, thumb stroking his cheek, “I’m not going to hurt you, Isaac. I’m never going to hurt you, baby.”

Isaac watches him for a moment, eyes still cautious and calculated, as if he still expects Derek to go back on his words and lash out at him at any second.

So Derek pulls Isaac towards him and he’s more than thankful when Isaac just goes with it, allows himself to be held by his father. He heads back out into the hall and finds Erica waddling down the stairs, suitcase in tow.

It didn’t take her long at all to gather all of Isaac’s things, Derek frowns, “You didn’t unpack?”

“Boyd was going to take him back tonight,” Erica explains with a light shrug, rolling her eyes. “He has a better head on his shoulders than I do, would you believe?”

Isaac doesn’t speak at all when Derek heads out of Erica’s house and buckles him into the car seat, Derek just gets into his seat and nods at Erica, holding Wolf in her arms, in the doorway before he drives away.

Isaac doesn’t say anything during the drive either, he sits with his palms in his lap and his face turned towards the window, but Derek doesn’t really mind. He feels a calm settling over him with just his son’s proximity, even if Isaac’s being a little quiet.

Derek pulls into to his normal parking spot late in the afternoon and he expediently pushes his seat forward, to unbuckle Isaac from his bumper.

Derek's there for hardly a second before Isaac is throwing his arms around his neck. He smushes his face next to his father’s and he holds on tightly. The angle is all awkward, with Derek leaning into the car as he is but he does his best to wrap an arm around Isaac’s back to return the hug, balancing himself with a hand braced on the jamb of the car door.

“I don’t hate you, daddy,” Isaac mumbles and he presses a sloppy kiss to Derek’s cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Derek assures, smoothing his palm over Isaac’s back. “I know, I love you, pup.”

Derek does finally manage to untangle the two of them, he’s almost delirious with relief, peppering kisses all over Isaac's face until Isaac is grinning and groaning and pushing his father’s face away.

Derek pulls Isaac from the car, pressing one final kiss to his son’s tumble of brown curls as he closes the car door and Isaac leans against him, and presses his face into Derek’s neck.

The tumble of nerves in Derek’s chest begins to crumble then, and as he begins to walk home he feels like he can breathe a little easier.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I read some pretty interesting studies on PTSD, they're mostly on War Veterans but hey, I'm not knocking the research that I did manage to find! I'll put up both the ones for Derek's trauma and Isaac's. Here's the links;  
> For Derek:  
> [ Here ](http://www.ouhsc.edu/safeprogram/03PTSD.pdf)  
> [ As well as here ](http://www.widowofawoundedmarine.com/2011/03/secondary-ptsd-and-ptsd-in-family.html)  
> [ And here too. ](http://www.nami.org/TextTemplate.cfm?Section=Family_to_Family&Template=/ContentManagement/ContentDisplay.cfm&ContentID=124250)  
> For Isaac:  
> [ Here](http://www.ptsd.va.gov/public/pages/very_young_trauma_survivors.asp<br%20/>%0Ahttp://thelackthereof.org/docs/library/wst/Kitzmann,%20Katherine%20et%20al%3A%20Child%20Witness%20to%20Domestic%20Violence%3A%20A%20Meta-Analytic%20Review.pdf)  
> [ and here. ](http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3232061/)
> 
> Hopefully this will explain everything a little better, until Sunday you guys! :)


	21. Fly Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys, so I know I've been M.I.A. for the last couple of weeks but my life has been a crazy mess lately. 
> 
> Finally, this week's song is very different. I doubt that most of you guys will have heard it, it's from this small time English band from my weird 15 year old self, but it's great and the video is cute too.

[  
So things are changing but I am on your side, and I know you're waiting but we'll make it back this time. ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-X3LdFkUS1I&list=PLgnxrTrD23zQLT9ILLqmwjuXZFWlp1MSr)

-

When Derek wakens in his bed on Sunday morning, he’s sprawled on his back blinking lazily as the dim light of the dawning day filters in slow, lethargic sunbeams through the curtains. The first thing he’s aware of is the overwhelming sense of relief that courses through him, cool and fresh, as he begins to drag himself into an upright position.

He's slept through the night, completely uninterrupted, which can only mean that Isaac did so too.

It had taken a long while for Isaac to fall asleep; he was obviously tired, twitching a little in Derek’s lap with his fist screwed tight into the material of his father's shirt, but his eyes had only begun to flutter in impending sleepiness over an hour _after_ his designated bedtime and only after Derek had already read through half of Isaac's bedtime book.

When Derek goes to check on him now, he pads quietly down the hall to peek his head into Isaac’s bedroom and finds him deeply asleep, drooling on his pillow as his arm clutches a wad of his blanket to his chest.

Derek feels nervous for a whole different reason now. This, he supposes, is what the last couple of months have been so perilously leading up to, the one moment to speak to his son about the horrors that Kate had orchestrated with her fury.

It’s going to be difficult, he knows, it’s going to be cumbersome and heartbreaking but it's unavoidable and so Derek wants to make this day as comfortable as he can for his son; he showers quickly and dresses before he heads into his office.

Stiles isn’t going to be coming over to the apartment until much later, Derek had called him the night before and found that the conversation was stilted and awkward, filled with helpless sighs and half-abandoned sentences.

It wasn’t awkward between _them_ so much as the whole topic in itself. Tension had hung in the distance between them and in that moment Derek had wanted nothing but to have Stiles near him, around him and _kissing_ him.

Derek had taken a deep, calming breath and told Stiles of the talk he intended to have with Isaac. Stiles’ quiet but sincere encouragements on the other end of the line had contrasted with the nervous energy that Derek could practically _feel_ Stiles displaying.

Stiles had sounded half distracted as he spoke, Derek could hear him pacing on the other end of the line, fast and jittery, but the earnestness his words had more than loosened the bubble of uncertainty hovering in the pit of Derek’s stomach.

The phone call had been brief, with Derek weighted down by the sheer stress of the day and its effects on him, Stiles had been quick to agree and Derek could hear the smile in his voice as he said, “I love you, Derek.”

To distract himself, Derek steadily reviews on his weekly reports for close to three hours, his mind going blissfully blank as he works with a single-minded focus. He pulls on his reading glasses almost as soon as he sits at his dark wooded desk and pulls his laptop close to him.

His attention is focused and specific as he reads through the quarterly reports for the company, periodically pushing his glasses up and over the bridge of his nose as he types.

He sends e-mail after e-mail to his junior associates, dividing up the company tasks between them in preparation for the coming week, looking over the reports and memos of the company’s most recent acquisitions just to make sure that his new associates aren’t making any monumental, newbie mistakes.

He's overviewing one of their most prominent cases, a privately owned vineyard in the south of Beacon County, when Isaac wakes up. He’s annotating the details by hand, a pen shoved in his mouth, another tucked behind his ear, eraser in one hand and a pencil in the other, squinting as he scribbles away on the paper in front of him.

Derek is always, _always_ messy when he works; a direct contrast to how tidy he normally is.

The only other time that he remembers ever being this messy was when he was furiously studying for his senior year finals in college, surrounded by stationary and half-empty pizza boxes as he and his friends knuckled down to the curriculum in the quietness of Derek’s apartment way into the early hours of the morning.

The messiness, however, is something he suspects he picked up from working with his mother right at the conception of his company.

Back when _Hale and Associates_ was his only client and afternoons were spent sitting opposite his mom with folders and highlighters and pencils strewn haphazardly across her desk as they dutifully went over the firm’s books at the end of each quarter.

His mom always lost track of her writing utensils and so Derek had gotten into the habit of tucking pencils behind his ears so that Talia could easily reach over and pluck them out, when needed, as she made notes on her report.

Derek is tapping the end of his pencil on the curved rim of his glasses, calculating the latest sum, when Isaac’s voice reaches him.

“Dad?” he calls, voice raised and questioning in the echo of the corridor.

“In the study,” Derek replies and seconds later Isaac trundles in, brown curls in frizzy disarray and one leg of his pyjama pants hitched up around his knee, dragging his blanket behind him as he shuffles over.

He heads straight over to one of Derek’s guest chairs, jumping up on his short legs as he climbs over and on to the seat.

He settles against an arm, curling his legs under him and tangling them in his blanket as Derek chews on the end of his pen and mumbles, “Just give me a second, pup.”

Derek works for another ten minutes in the comfortable silence, the scratch of pencil on paper and Isaac’s restless movements on the leather of the seat filling his head as he diligently works.

Eventually though, he gives up on mentally calculating the equations he’s writing, on yet another loose sheet of paper; his mind relishes the mental exercise but it takes a little longer to do and Derek realises that he actually needs to make Isaac’s breakfast.

So he searches through the loose papers scattered across his desk for his calculator, eventually finding it beneath the printed records of the vineyard’s books, he jabs in the necessary digits with a learned efficiency as he collects his thoughts and makes half-comprehensible notes to be revisited later.

Derek is pretty pleased with the amount of progress he’s made and he knows that he can probably take tomorrow off without worrying about his company falling behind on the assigned tasks. Just before he tidies his desk, he sends an e-mail to Lydia, attaching a copy of Jackson’s resume.

He writes, _‘Personal consideration for the summer internship?’_ and attaches both Jackson’s personal number and the link for the picture on his LinkedIn profile.

Lydia e-mails back immediately e-mail pinging as Derek gathers up his notes and clips them together; he huffs a laugh as he reads over the message.

He can just about imagine the look on Lydia’s face as she types, ‘You are a _bad_ man, Derek Hale.’

Eventually Derek is able to lift Isaac from his chair, where he had begun to fall back into a sleepy reverie, and he sets him on the floor before he herds him towards the bathroom to get washed up.

Derek heads in the opposite direction, towards the kitchen, with Isaac’s blanket grasped in one hand as the other wipes roughly over his tired face.

He’s whisking the pancake batter by the time that Isaac comes in and settles at the table; it’s no effort to make his little boy happy, and Derek will take every opportunity to give his son a slice of contentment _now_ when he’s inevitably going to be saddened later on.

Though if Isaac suspects the stiffness with which Derek holds himself or the nervousness coursing through his veins, he makes no show of it.

Instead he clasps his hands on the table and rests his cheeks on top of them as he watches his father, laughing softly when the pancake batter splashes and smudges on the lens of Derek’s glasses.

The tension from the previous day has all but dissipated between them but Derek still feels a slither of relief in his bones at the sound of Isaac’s laugh.  He’d been worried, of course he had, that Isaac would remain impartial and aloof due to what happened the day before.

Even after they had arrived home the afternoon prior, the closeness between them had been tense. Their smiles were a little forced for those first few minutes; Isaac’s movements wary, and Derek’s much too careful.

He was cautious of moving too suddenly and spooking his son; he knew that, despite his reassurances, Isaac would more than likely still be a little apprehensive of his father.

Derek has no idea how Kate used to act around Isaac when she was in one of her moods, so he's flying completely blind in this as he tries to pre-emptively stop himself from acting as she would.

And his son had absorbed the tension that Derek was displaying into his own movements like a sponge.

But they did try their best to move past that. Derek had curled Isaac to his chest as they watched cartoons, he had carded gentle fingers through his son’s curls, pressed his nose against his temple as he rubbed his back, feeling Isaac relax in increments until he lay boneless against Derek’s chest.

Now though, Isaac is positively devouring his breakfast. He’s sitting at the very edge of his seat, his legs swinging in the inches of air beneath his chair as he eats with his elbows barely reaching the surface of the table,  knocking into the side of the table as he tips his glass over to take large gulps of his milk.

Isaac is certainly not complaining, even if Derek thinks that all of the knocks to his elbow must be at least a little sore by now, instead Isaac shoots his father small, bashful smiles between every bite of his pancakes, making quiet, content noises as he shifts from side to side on his seat.

It’s over half an hour later that Derek finally banishes Isaac to the living room as he cleans up the kitchen.

He’s washing the dishes slowly, almost absently, as his minds turns over what he is intending to say, carefully going over the information he’d absorbed from the internet the night prior.

After he’s finished he wipes down the counter with clean, economical swipes before he washes his hands and perfunctorily dries them, he takes a deep, steadying breath and he walks purposefully towards the living room.

Isaac’s settled in his favourite armchair, chin resting on the upturned palm of his hand as he intently watches the nature documentary playing on the screen. When Derek turns off the television, Isaac immediately makes a soft noise of dissent, grumbling lowly as pushes his hands towards the blank screen of the television as if to ask, _what’d you do that for?_

He quietens though, when Derek walks towards him and fits his hands beneath Isaac’s arms, lifting him up, and manoeuvring them so that Derek can sit down and Isaac can fit comfortably in his lap.

Derek slips his glasses off his face and gently snaps the thin temple arms to cross and rest behind the lenses, and he sighs deeply.

Isaac seems to intuitively notice his father's sombre disposition and his gaze skitters all over Derek's face, studying him, breathing deep and even in apprehension of whatever discussion is to come. 

Derek leans forward and gingerly places his glasses on the coffee table, partly to prevent them from breaking but more so to prolong the inevitable start of the conversation. 

It's always hard to begin, Derek thinks. 

The start is always hard to decipher; fumbling, rhetoric language that manages to dull his mind, leaving him numb and lost. 

That's how it has always been for Derek in any case, and it's no different now, even with his son sitting patiently on his lap.

"This, this is going to be _really_ hard for me to talk about," Derek eventually starts, wrapping an arm around Isaac and fitting him more securely against his chest. "So I can't even begin to think how hard this is going to be for _you_." 

He reaches out with his free hand to smooth over the confused frown that is beginning to mar his son's face. Derek levels an even gaze with Isaac, and he gently elaborates, "I need to know what happened with your mom." 

The reaction is instantaneous. Isaac tenses up immediately, his gaze dropping, like hot tar, from his father's face.

Derek begins to rub his son's back almost automatically, some innate paternal need to instil comfort into his son coming into play. 

"Isaac? Look at me, baby," he fits gentle fingers of his other hand beneath Isaac's chin, nudging his head backward and waiting patiently until his son looks at him.

Isaac's gaze skitters to Derek's uncertainly once or twice before they settle, a dark shade of wariness trickles into the blue of his irises and Derek absolutely hates that he’s the one who has to put it there.

"We don't have to talk about it today if - if you don't want, or you're not _ready_ quite just yet; but we _will_ have to talk sometime,” Derek pauses, blinks. “Do you understand?” 

Isaac nods hesitantly, he begins to wring his hands together in a nervous gesture as he swivels his gaze from his father's down to his lap, "Yes, dad."

"I know that this must be real scary for you, puppy," Derek murmurs, tenderly pinching Isaac's chin. "But I'm here to listen to you, okay?” Derek ducks down a little, finding his son’s eyes. “I will _always_ listen to you.”

“This is important, Isaac,” Derek stresses, bumping his nose against Isaac’s briefly. “ _You_ are important and you can always tell Daddy how you feel, okay?”

Isaac's answering smile is a little more hopeful this time; he brushes the curls of his hair away from his eyes with the flat palm of his small hand before he clutches a swathe of Derek's shirt in his fist flexing the material in his hand as he thinks.

He looks up to his father and tentatively asks, "And I don't have to talk about it today if I don’ wanna?" 

Derek shakes his head, "Nope, if you don't want to talk about it then we don't have to, I'll ask everyday until you're ready if I have to." 

And Derek would, he realises, because as much as he wants to understand what happened to his son, how much he _needs_ to know the extent of the damage that Kate inflicted on him, Derek knows that this isn't about _him_.

This is about making Isaac feel safe enough with the bond that he has with his father to be able to open up, but he's not going to pressure him.

He'll ask the same damn question until he's old and grey and blue in the face if he needs to, if that's how long it'll take for Isaac to be somewhat comfortable in talking about this, because Isaac is his son and there's nothing that he wouldn't do for him. 

Isaac goes quiet for a long time, and Derek knows that he's thinking hard about this, his hands have stilled, his gaze is settled somewhere in the middle distance and his mouth has dropped slightly open as it does when he's deep in thought. 

That's one of the things that most inspires pride in Derek as a father, the fact that Isaac doesn't take anything lightly; give the boy a thought or an idea and he pounces on it, completely mulls it over to the best of his abilities. 

It doesn’t stop Isaac from jumping in headlong into situations he has no business waddling into of course, but Derek figures that it’s the thought that counts really.

Isaac is resourceful, he has always been, even though he still retains that aspect of childish rebelliousness; Isaac is the bravest little boy Derek has ever seen. 

He has an inborn determination in him, a need to face the problem head on, and that's what makes up his resolve now. 

Derek can see the way that his face twists, how his son sets his mouth in a grim line despite how his cheeks colour red with apprehension, he can _see_ how Isaac forces himself to look up at his father looking determined despite the slight tremor in his voice, "I wanna talk about it now."

He deflates a little against Derek after though, clutching tighter to the fistful of soft cotton in his hands, like just saying the words took every ounce of his strength. 

"Okay," Derek whispers, he nods slowly, rubbing wide soothing circles on the back of Isaac's pyjama top. He settles his forehead against his son's and closes his eyes, breathing deeply until his heartbeat stops tripping over itself, "Okay." 

-

Isaac is steadily looking at Derek, expectantly waiting for him to start speaking. 

The thing is that Derek hasn't really thought of anything beyond broaching the subject with Isaac and then proceeding to let him know that he'll always be there to listen, no matter how hard it will be.

Now though, being faced with actively asking his own son about the abuse he suffered at the hands of his mother seems like an entirely different beast.

It’s like struggling at the deep end of a pool when you don't know how to swim, closing your eyes for only a brief second and finding yourself stranded in the middle of the ocean when you open them again. 

Derek suspects that the reason his fingers crawl up from Isaac's back to card through the tangle of his curls is to offer comfort to himself as much as to his son. 

Isaac smells like mint and cinnamon and a warm batch of pancakes, it's all Derek can do to not curl his son to him and just breathe; no talking, no moving, _nothing_.

The desire to just keep breathing in his familiar scent and wait for all of this to blow over is overwhelming. 

Isaac is clearly happy to not be talking about it too, given the way that he leans back into Derek's touch with his face upturned and his eyes closed, soaking up the affection that his father doles out. 

Derek trails his hand around to cup the side of Isaac's face, a thumb dragging over the heated flush of his cheek. 

"Isaac?" Derek asks tentatively, his voice seems much too loud in the quietness that has settled over the apartment, but he forces himself to ignore the self-consciousness that comes along with that realisation and instead focuses on the bleary way that his son opens his eyes and hums in acknowledgement, blinking against the sudden brightness.

"That night, that I- that I found you with your mom and we left; that wasn't the first time that it had happened was it?" 

Isaac sobers immediately, his posture straightens and stiffens ever so slightly and he shakes his head, his voice is quiet and timid, "No."

Derek had expected this, _of course_ he had, but it still feels like a solid punch to the gut to hear it from his son.

"Wanna tell me about it?" he gently prompts.

Derek has read about this, about giving Isaac the space to be able to vent without feeling pressured or rushed, so he rubs his back and murmurs, "It's okay, baby. Take as long as you want, Daddy's not going anywhere." 

Derek settles back against the armchair, curls his arm around Isaac's back again and the other grasps the two fists Isaac's has placed, taught and hard, in his lap. 

Isaac's looking somewhere beyond Derek's shoulder now, his eyes large and wet, worrying his lips between his teeth. 

It takes him a while to answer but Derek doesn't pressure him, doesn't say anything, he merely continues the soothing gesture of his thumb running across Isaac's knuckles. 

"When-," Isaac breaks off, sucking in a shaky breath, taking one of his hands from underneath Derek's to wipe roughly at the tear track running down his cheek. "When I was naughty." 

Derek feels a hot crush of protective anger sink into his skin, he'll never forgive Kate for what she's done, but he promises himself that he will _never_ let her hurt his son again. 

He feels a small hand hesitantly covers his, looks down to see Isaac's fingers curling over his thumb and his gaze skitters up to his son's apprehensive expression.

Derek had tensed up without even realising it, vibrating anger and tainting the air with barely veiled tension. 

He forces himself to relax, to unwind his muscles and to take a deep breath because anger is _not_ what his son needs right now. 

Derek turns his palm up as he wracks his brain trying to think of how to tackle this particular issue. He can't help but smile a little when Isaac's fingers begin their customary exploration of his father's palm, tracing the lines and wrinkles on Derek's hand. 

It had taken a lot out of Isaac to say what little he had, Derek realises, and that's always something that they can work on together, with _professional_ help. 

Derek isn't looking to further traumatise his son because of his own lack of expertise. He knows that what Isaac needs to have right now is words of reassurance, Derek wants to at least re-establish the trust, reignite the bond between them and then they can deal with everything else. 

But above all else, he wants Isaac to understand the fundamental reason for why they left. 

"Isaac," Derek begins gradually, gently closing his fist over his son's hand, Derek can practically feel the nervousness radiating around his son's small body. "When you're naughty, when you've done something wrong you-." 

Derek pauses, takes a deep breath and blinks out the tears smarting in his eyes.

The words sound forced, clunky and awkward, and not at all as reassuring as he hoped they'd be. It comes out sounding all completely wrong, so he closes his eyes briefly, _centres_ himself, before he gathers the courage to look his son in the eye.

"When Daddy's cross at you," Derek says quietly. "And you're in trouble, what's your punishment?" 

The skin around Isaac's eyes tightens almost immediately and his gaze hardens a little, like he's trying to figure out if Derek is playing tricks on him or leading him into the wrong answer. 

His eyes search into Derek's steady gaze, looking for honesty or reassurance Derek doesn't know, but he seems to find it because he takes a deep breath. 

"You put me on Time Out," he answers carefully, quietly. "Or take my toys away for, for a little bit." 

Isaac presses his lips together and tries to evade Derek's gaze, squirming a little in his father's lap. 

"And how does that make you feel?" Derek asks, trying his best to continue despite his son’s discomfort. He almost wants to laugh at how much he sounds like Doctor Morrell. “Annoyed, right?” 

Isaac nods, and his eyes flicker up to sneak a gaze at his dad before they dart away, just as quick. 

"Do you know why I do that pup?" 

Isaac thinks about this very hard, Derek can tell by the soft tell-tale frown lining his face, the way that his mouth hangs open a little.

"So I know what I did wrong," he says, looking up at his father. "So I can think about why it's bad." 

A small smiles tugs at Derek's lip, he doesn't know what he did to deserve such a great kid. 

"Exactly," he nods reassuringly, and he feels Isaac relax a little in relief. "But, but when your mom, when she hi-.” Derek chokes on the words, feeling that same old wave of anger crawl up his throat. “When she hit you, how did that make you feel?" 

It's not a surprise to Derek that Isaac once again takes his time to answer. Derek waits as patiently as he can, feeling his heartbeat kick up a notch in his chest as the silence of the apartment crowds up into him, suffocating and hot in its stillness. 

Isaac moves restlessly, like he's trying to cower back into himself and it breaks Derek's heart to see the way that he hunches his shoulder, wiping his cheek, stained with tears, on his pyjama top. 

But Derek still doesn't say anything, no matter how much he wants to make this easier for his son he has to make sure that he isn't asking leading questions, he needs to hear the unbiased truth from his son, so instead he settles for squeezing Isaac's hands in reassurance. 

Eventually, _eventually,_ Isaac speaks, and his breath hitches around his soft spoken words.

"Scared,” he admits, voice shaking. “Really, _really_ scared; it hurt a lot." 

“Isaac,” Derek breathes in harshly, almost crumpling around his son, crushing him to his chest for a tight hug. "Baby, that's _not okay_."

He pulls back to look at Isaac, slipping fingers beneath his chin to make him look up, "That's _never_ okay and I'm so sorry you had to go through that, pup. I'm so sorry." 

Isaac sniffles and his lip trembles but he scrambles to stand on top of Derek's thighs and throw his arms around his father's neck. 

Derek wraps his arms tightly around Isaac's back, burrowing his face into his shoulder as Isaac begins to shake with the force of it all. 

He doesn't know what else to do other than squeeze tight and whisper promises of love and safety into his son's ears. 

 -

Later, Derek opens the door to Stiles’ hesitant, wobbly smile. There’s a second, just _one_ second, that they spend looking at each other, just looking.

This time Derek is the one who moves forward, sweeping Stiles up in a tight embrace. He spreads his palms on Stiles’ sides, pressing down as he soaks up the heat of his body, seeping even through the hoodie Stiles has on. Stiles hugs back just as reverently, burying his face into the crook of Derek’s neck and sighing quietly as he holds on.

His fingers dig into the wings of Derek’s shoulder blades, his mouth presses a warm, breathy kiss into Derek’s neck and Derek can feel the small, almost undetectable traces of shuddering running through Stiles’ body, though he’s not sure whether that’s a result of the blinding ferocity of their hug or something else entirely.

Derek’s so close to Stiles that he fancies he can almost feel the phantom impression that Stiles’ heartbeats leave on his chest, so he feels when Stiles lifts his head up and stiffens a little against him.

He pushes Derek away a little with gentle hands braced on his biceps; Derek doesn’t even attempt to ask Stiles what’s wrong seeing as the other man’s attention isn’t even focused on him.

Behind them, Isaac stands in the middle of the corridor, arms hanging loosely by his sides and gaze cataloguing everything about Stiles and Derek, still wrapped up in each other’s limbs.

Isaac doesn’t look angry, Derek notes; instead there’s a cautious curiosity on his face. Shock, Derek suspects, was probably the reason for his reaction when he had stumbled across Stiles and Derek the day before.

Now, Isaac has had time to think about it, the idea of his father and Stiles together; and his little boy  _had_ known that Stiles was coming over today too.

Derek had very carefully explained it to him as he helped his son out of his pyjamas and into day clothes. Isaac had looked wary and reluctant, and that was to be expected, but he had eventually, though hesitantly, nodded his acquiescence.

He hadn’t put up a fuss and Derek knows that he owes that to the trust that they'd established between the two of them earlier in the morning.

Stiles chances a glance at Derek and accompanies it with a brief questioning tilt of his head. Derek subtly nods back, without a single beat of hesitation.

Then, Stiles is moving out from within the circle of Derek’s arms, and Derek finds himself half-chasing the comforting heat of his body as Stiles moves further into the apartment.

He moves towards Isaac on unsure legs, kneeling down in front of him so that they’re at eye level.

“Hey bud,” Stiles says, hands clasped between his knees. He extends a tentative hand towards Isaac, palm facing up in a hopeful gesture. “Can we talk?”

Isaac hesitates for a few seconds, and Derek can see the tension tightening in the cords of muscle of Stiles’ back, stiffness visible even under the stretch of fabric over Stiles’ shoulder blades.

Isaac’s gaze flickers towards Derek for a brief moment, Derek doesn’t know what his son sees in his expression but it’s enough for Isaac to smile timidly at Stiles and slips his small hand into Stiles’ larger one.

After Stiles stands up and leads Isaac into the living room, Derek shakes himself out of his surprised stupor; that was a _hell_ of a lot easier than he thought it would be.

He takes a deep breath, fervently hopes that Isaac’s easy acceptance continues before he firmly closes the front door.

When he gets into the living room, he finds Isaac sitting in his customary armchair, whilst Stiles sits opposite him on the sofa on the other side of the coffee table. They’re resolutely avoiding each other’s gazes and instead they instantly turn their attention to him as soon as he walks over the threshold.

Derek stands there, pinned by their gazes, idly swinging his hands by his side. He has no idea what to do, or what to _say_ , seeing as this entire situation is nothing like he thought it would ever be like.

For one, he had expected that Isaac wouldn’t even be _aware_ that there was a _Derek and Stiles_.

In the end, after minutes of tense akwardness, Stiles is the one who finally gives Derek an out. He sneaks a look to Isaac before he looks back at Derek, “I- would you mind if I talked to Isaac? Alone?”

Derek is a touch cautious at the prospect at first, but then Isaac turns and steadily meets Stiles’ gaze. The air becomes charged, not with uncomfortable strain, but rather with the weight of their mutual appraisal.

There seems to be no animosity or apathy radiating from Isaac, however, so Derek is happy to leave them to it and he walks out just as Stiles rounds the coffee table to perch in front of Isaac.

He pauses just outside the living room, he’s not going to eavesdrop, but he does need the physical reassurance that Isaac is okay with the whole situation.

There’s silence for a long time emanating from the living room, but the density of it is different and Derek knows without a doubt, without even having to look, the exact expression on Stiles’ face as he carefully contemplates his next few words.

“Do you remember when I said my mom used to say I was afraid of the moonlight?” Derek hears Stiles ask.

It’s not what Derek expected him to start with, not in the slightest, but he knows that Isaac’s, as well as his own, interest is piqued.

Derek hears his son utter a soft, “Yeah.”

“Well, your dad,” Stiles pauses, sighs and Derek hears the rustle of fabric as he moves in the next room. “Your dad makes me feel like I could conquer that fear if I wanted to, Isaac.”

Derek feels his cheeks blush red at the words, affection pooling low in his stomach, heating his entire body from the crown of his head all the way down to his feet.

His breath catches in his throat, making him feel lightheaded with the sheer amount of love he feels for the two people just beyond the wall he’s leaning against.

Derek quietly pads over to the kitchen, and just before he closes the door, Stiles’ voice reaches him,

It’s low and gentle, almost submerged beneath the silence of the apartment, “Derek makes me feel like I could be king of the moonlight.”

Derek leans back against the door of the kitchen; he closes his eyes and allows him one long, languid smile in the privacy of his sole company before he busies himself.

He can hear nothing but the low murmur of voices coming from the living room, he has no idea what they’re saying to each other and he finds it strange that he’s okay with the fact that he might never know.

Derek realises that as much as he and his son have many, many issues to work through together, if this relationship between he and Stiles is to work, Stiles and Isaac will also have to work through a boatload of _their_  own issues too. 

Derek’s halfway through the Sunday Newspaper’s crossword puzzle, answers written in with one of Isaac’s discarded crayons, when he gets distracted by the sound of furniture moving from the living room.

He stills, straining his ears towards the living room but hears absolutely nothing else.

He gets up to go investigate, and he's halfway to the door when he remembers that the tomato sauce that he started, some twenty minutes prior, is still simmering on the stovetop.

Derek doubles back to place it on the lowest setting, stirs it once and adds a glass of water to slow down the cooking and does a perfunctory check of everything else he’s making before he heads back out.

He finds Stiles and Isaac sitting close together on the floor in the middle of the living room, coffee table shoved to the side, facing one other with Isaac’s toys and comics in a loose, littered circle around them.

Derek moves forward almost automatically, drawn in by the two of them, and he plops down next to Stiles. He leans into him, with one hand planted firmly behind the man’s back, as he watches his son intently scan the comic in his hands.

Isaac briefly glances up at his father, eyes flicking up before he goes back to the vivid images on the pagespread, but then his gaze ricochets back up to Stiles and Derek.

Derek tenses a little, despite the complete relaxation in Stiles’ posture, as Isaac’s eyes track the way that Derek and Stiles are fitted so close against one another.

His eyes linger on the slither of space left between the two of them before he drops his eyes back to the comic on his lap.

Derek’s moving before he even realises, leaning forwards a little bit to grasp Isaac’s arm and haul him over to them. Isaac lets out a squawk of surprise as Derek places him firmly in his lap, and his hands tighten involuntarily on his comic, crumpling the sides in his fist.

He sighs in indignation even as he leans back against his father’s chest, smoothing out the crinkles on the pages with the flat of his hand, lowly muttering, “ _Dad_.”

Stiles hides a grin behind his hand, brown eyes glittering with amusement and Derek rolls his eyes at him.

Isaac seems to relax now, with the tactile comfort of his father, and he settles into to inspecting the panels of his comic book by wiggling his feet out, from where they've fallen into the crevice of space between Stiles and Derek, and promptly stretching them so that they fall into Stiles’ lap.

Stiles looks surprised at the gesture, Derek has no doubt his own expression mirrors the same look, and he tentatively places a hand over Isaac’s ankles looking up at Derek with a tentative smile when Isaac doesn't buck his hands off.

Derek doesn’t know if Isaac is truly at ease or whether he’s deliberately feigning nonchalance, but either way, he sighs and leans his head on his father’s chest, completely engrossed in his comic.

Derek glances over his head of curls towards Stiles.

“ _What did you say to him?_ ” he mouths at the man, but Stiles merely shakes his head, smiling wide and bright and leans over to stifle his soft laugh in Derek’s shoulder.

He looks up at Derek and grins, eyes crinkling with tenderness, and he presses a kiss to Derek’s shoulder.

The action itself is chaste, minimal, but even then Derek feels the heat of Stiles’ kiss burn all the way through silk of his shirt, searing a promise of faith and courage into his skin. 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-dah! How was that after my few weeks hiatus? I wanted to silly softness to end the chapter this week, I reckon we've all had too much angst lately, eh?  
> Until next week you guys, and thanks for being patient! :)


	22. All Your Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Guess who's back (again!) Sorry for the inordinate amount of time it's taken me to put out this chapter, I
> 
> I do sincerely hope you enjoy this chapter, let me know what you think by way of comments guys and this week's song is by Bat for Lashes, I genuinely think you should check out the video.
> 
> It's one of the most awesome ones I've seen in a while. Really simple but super effective (and Nat's back has some moves!)

[  
There was someone that I knew before, a heart from the past I cannot forget. I let her take all my gold and hurt me so bad and now for you, I have nothing left.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EXK0Ejzin4c&list=PLgnxrTrD23zQLT9ILLqmwjuXZFWlp1MSr)

-

When Isaac falls asleep this time around, he’s sprawled over Derek’s lap with his cheeks carefully cushioned on his hands, where they lay softly atop his father’s knee, his mouth open in gentle snoring and his lashes fanning out over his face as he dreams. 

He'd fallen asleep somewhere between the first and second movie, so Derek and Stiles had decided to let him be, knowing that he needed it especially after the day he'd been through. Instead they had spent the rest of their time in quiet company as they rested after their dinner.

Derek now lays sprawled low on the floor, his shoulders supported by the seat of the couch as he absently strokes Isaac’s back, his eyes inevitably drifting from the television screen towards the figure of Stiles.

Stiles, for the most part, remains completely oblivious to Derek’s attentions. He’s sitting on the other side of the coffee table, his long legs thrown over one side of the armchair and a light frown between his brows as he places continuous concentration in the film in front of him.

There are moments, of course, discreet moments during those few hours where Derek manages to catch Stiles’ gaze. They never last for more than a few seconds, accompanied by a small smile in recognition before his attention is inevitably stolen, though the impressions that those quiet, lingering gazes leave are always emphatically electric. 

They’re like sparks of warm fire, oozing hot and quick down Derek’s throat like shots of cold whiskey; burning deep into his chest. It makes him shiver, makes his eyes flutter and his pupils dilate.   

It’s only when Stiles sees this particular gaze from Derek, when he sees the sheer intensity of it, that his posture changes. He sits up a little straighter, the muscles of his body tightening up beneath his skin, like silk over water, even as his fingertips curl into the palm of his hand and his mouth falls open in expectation.

Stiles’ eyes flicker over to Isaac for a split second, before hopping considerately back up to Derek’s face and he cants his head towards the darkened corridor in tentative invitation. 

Derek wastes no time in getting up, gently bundling his son to his chest and hushing his sleepy fussing with kisses to the brown curls at his temple, before he carefully makes his way towards Isaac’s bedroom.

He leaves Stiles to turn off the television and make the mess they made of the living room somewhat presentable and he walks slowly, padding lightly across the tiles of corridor as he rubs Isaac’s back. 

His son falls easily back into sleep, snuffling lazily as he shoves his arms into his pyjamas, leaning forward to rest his forehead heavily on Derek’s stomach as his father finishes dressing him for bed and in the end, Derek only needs to lightly kiss the palm of Isaac's hand in order to hush the soft protestations tumbling from his son’s mouth. 

When Isaac is finally, blissfully asleep, Derek finds Stiles in his bedroom. It makes him pause, in light of the feeling of the humble comfort of seeing Stiles in his bedroom, moving with easy familiarity and preparing his bed, for _them_ and only for them.

So Derek stands in the doorway for a long few seconds, leaning against the doorjamb just to watch him.

Stiles is doused gold by the soft, low light of the bedside lamp as he leans over the bed; dark, elongated shadows playing over the curved angles of his face. Derek finds such simple pleasure in his movements, it’s so easy for him to lose himself in watching the sinuous muscle of Stiles’ forearms shifting beneath his skin as he folds the material over itself.

Stiles shoves back the covers with no elegance whatsoever though, and it makes Derek smile to see him tossing the sheets back haphazardly and fluffing up the pillows with heavy, distracted fists; and when he finishes with the bed, Stiles straightens himself up and he turns as if to walk back out of the room.

He startles a little at the image that Derek makes: his broad shoulders blocking out the space where he leans against the doorway, one ankle neatly crossed over the other and his arms folded lightly across his chest.

But soon Stiles smiles, soft and beckoning, he catches sight of the indulgent look in Derek’s eyes and he lets his hands hang limply by his side as Derek approaches him.

The need that had burned in Derek’s veins just a little while ago seems secondary now, more of a simmering gentleness than the rush of adrenaline it once was.

Derek doesn’t want to rush this, to rush _them_ ; he sees no need to.

He closes the door and he walks unhurriedly towards Stiles with small even paces. He moves so close that they’re pressed together, toe-to-toe and nose-to-nose: drinking each other in and breathing the same warm air.

It takes almost nothing for Derek to lean forward those last few millimeters, to tip his head to the side, gently nudge Stiles’ nose and capture his lips on a soft inhale.

Their kiss is languid.

Slow. 

Measured. 

It’s Derek delicately curling his fingers around Stiles’ jaw, fingertips on the hot skin of his neck, winding around the soft tendrils of his hair, dipping into the sharp hollow beneath his cheekbones, and touching the scant space between where they meld their lips together.

It’s melodious, like a symphony: staccato breaths and beating hearts and kiss-stained lips; bodies that move together and sigh and cry and hold each other up above the crashing waves. 

It’s all Derek wants and not enough all at the same time. 

So he takes and he takes and he _takes_ , but he also gives more than he thinks he ought to, more than he probably has the capacity for. 

He pours his love and his devotion and his insecurity into every crevice that Stiles will allow him to; filling them both up with each other even as Derek runs his teeth over the plumpness of Stiles’ soft mouth and Stiles wraps his hands around Derek’s hips, pulling him ever closer, keeping them tangled up in themselves.

The shift, when it happens, is the most unassuming thing: Stiles changes his footing.

And that’s it.

He changes his footing and makes Derek take half a step back, Stiles presses forward once with his control and then he’s curling around Derek. His fingers creeping under the hem of his shirt, scattering the pads of his fingertips over Derek’s skin like rainfall: heavy and elusive. 

Derek hardly concentrates on anything but the feel of Stiles as he kisses him; he pays no heed to the actual unbuttoning of his shirt but only the fingers and knuckles as they brush a clear a path down his sternum and the shades of heat of Stiles’ palms as he slides the shirt from Derek’s shoulders.

And then Derek’s skin is bared to the cool, night air and all at once it hits him like a tidal wave, making him huddle against Stiles and shiver and hum into his mouth.

His skin is warmed only by Stiles’ broad hands sweeping over the expanse of it in all-encompassing, familiar circles, reaching from the swirls of Derek’s tattoo to the deep indents above his lower back.

There are curious fingers that spread over his hips, hands that pull at the taught muscle, callouses that sink into his back and the heel of a palm that bumps over the knobs of Derek’s spine while other seeks out the swell of his ass. 

Derek himself pulls off Stiles’ shirt with far less finesse, desperate for any nude contact with the other man’s body, and he’s tossing the shirt to land somewhere in the darkness behind him and before he knows it he’s leaning back in, ravenously, to dive back into Stiles.

He all but sighs in response to the shifting of their skins when their chests are finally pressed together and even then Derek clambers to get closer, like he could just step into Stiles’ skin and simmer in it.

And Derek makes no protest once Stiles begins to lead him towards the bed, rather he goes willingly, eagerly: one slow step after the other. Nothing rushed or convoluted about it. 

He slides on to the bed when Stiles indicates that he should, feeling the cool cotton slither across his back, and he silently watches as Stiles’ gaze trails over the figure that Derek makes: from the wide spread of his legs, to the scarlet flush of his cheeks and to the dark mess of his hair fanned out over the pale pillows.

Stiles kneels one leg on the mattress before he swings his other leg over Derek’s hips to straddle him, and he leans in low. 

His face becomes unfocused in front of Derek, vague and indistinct at the edges, like a far away dream, but Derek’s attention is only on the flushed lips hovering inches away from him.

Derek surges forward, seeking his mouth, but Stiles evades him, not quite managing to catch the gentle smile that widens on his face when he sees the dejected expression that Derek is wearing. 

Instead Stiles ducks his head down low to press hard, heated kisses down the line of Derek’s chest; occasionally veering off left and right to press passion-fuelled bites over the taut skin of Derek’s muscles.

He nuzzles at the waistband of Derek’s dark jeans, bites at the hipbones that peek over the top of the material, before he shuffles backwards to ease the jeans off of Derek’s thighs and divest himself of his own clothing. 

When he finally, _finally_ , wraps a warm hand over the base of Derek’s cock, Derek sighs and sinks further into the bed, fingertips furrowing in Stiles’ hair.

Stiles spreads the long fingers of his other hand over the firm muscles of Derek’s belly, muscles that spasm beneath his skin with each long pull of Stiles’ heated mouth.

He flattens the expanse of his tongue over the underside of Derek’s cock, tracing the prominent veins with tender suckles, before he fits his lips over the smooth, bulbous head and swallows it deep into his mouth.

Derek’s not even sure precisely when Stiles slicks his fingers and reaches back to push them into himself. He only becomes half aware when he finds that he's entranced by the movement of Stiles’ arm, his cock a hard line against his forearm, pre-come trailing over the coarse hair with each hard thrust of shifting tendons, plowing his fingers into himself.  

Derek’s throws his head back against the pillows; his eyes are screwed shut, the skin of his neck flushing red, his fingers tangled in Stiles’ hair. He registers nothing but the slow, wet slide of Stiles’ lips against him and he’s shaking, absolutely _shaking_ , by the time that Stiles is humming low in his throat, a continuous sound of delirious pleasure as he pumps his fingers into himself.

When Stiles crawls over Derek’s body he kisses his lips gently once, twice, and drags his swollen lips over where Derek’s stubble tumbles over his jaw whilst Derek runs his hands over the sweat covering Stiles’ back. 

He wraps his arms around Stiles and presses the other man to his chest, slots his mouth over his and entices his tongue with his own, hiding the moans and sighs that starts deep in his chest in the heat of Stiles’ mouth.

It feels like forever since they’ve done this, since they’ve been able to lose themselves in each other quite like this. So Derek revels in this, in the way that Stiles snakes an arm between them to slick Derek up with swift strokes over his cock, and in the way that Stiles carefully rolls on the condom, he  _revels_ in the soft hiss that escapes Stiles as he lowers himself down over Derek. 

Derek fits his forehead close to Stiles’ own, watches his eyes as they deepen in colour, saturated with lust and wide with the burn of the stretch as he accommodates Derek. 

Stiles places a strong hand over Derek’s neck when he begins to move in long undulating curls of his body; closing his eyes and tipping his head further forward as he takes Derek in again and again into the tight, heat of his body. 

Stiles tries to keep quiet, his mouth drawn in a fraught, pale line, the fingers of one hand finding purchase in Derek’s skin while he spreads the fingers of the other flat against the headboard on Derek’s other side.

Derek grips Stiles’ hips, placing his feet flat on the mattress as he rolls his own hips upwards to meet with the hard rolling waves of Stiles’ body and Stiles cups his cheek, smile flickering over his lips even as his eyes flutter shut each time Derek plunges into him, panting heavily against Derek’s mouth.

But Derek barely hears him over his own stuttered breaths, the sound of his blood thundering so loudly inside his own head it’s almost tangible, he’s periodically flickering his eyes from the wondrous, blissed expression on Stiles’ face to Stiles’ own cock, heavy with hardness and flushed red as it drags across Derek’s stomach.

Derek groans deeply when Stiles curls long fingers around himself, it sounds much too loud in his head, the sound of it reverberating in the distance between them, even though Derek knows it was barely louder than a whisper.

Stiles keeps his eyes on Derek even as their bodies rush towards each other, even as he’s practically keening while his hand runs fast lengths over his cock. It creates a bubble of feeling inside of Derek, settled low into his belly. 

It’s less sharp than molten lust, instead it broils over; simmering around the hazy edges and it feels easy, like love; and constant, like water.

It travels up Derek’s spine, bumping over every single notch of it, firing up his throat and leaving his body in a heavy gasp, his body tightening as he spills himself inside of Stiles.

Stiles swallows a moan at the feeling of being filled, hardening his thrusts and squeezing over Derek, and his hands quickens over the length of his cock. 

He tightens his fingertips in alarm over Derek’s shoulder as Derek’s rhythm falters.

“Don’t stop,” he begs, breath hitching over his words. “C’mon Derek, _please_. Please don’t stop.”

Derek’s trying, he really is, but the feeling of Stiles continually riding him is getting to be too much. He’s too tight and too hot, he feels so damn good, but he’s over-stimulating Derek to the point where it almost hurts.

And he can’t, he _can’t_ go through that again so he grunts in apology and tightens his fingers over Stiles’ hips and gently extricates himself.

He feels the inevitable disappointment in the slump of Stiles’ body, in the way that he tucks his face into the crook of Derek’s neck and readjusts himself to pump his cock harder, muttering inarticulate sighs as he searches for release without the fullness of Derek stretching him to ease his way.

But by this time Derek’s fingers reaching between the cleft of Stiles’ ass, fingertips tracing over the puckered edges of Stiles’ hole before they plunge into the awaiting heat.

And Stiles breathes a mumbled, stunned ‘fuck yes’ into the feverish skin of Derek’s shoulder, trails kisses across his neck as he sinks his knees further into the mattress to help him push back on to Derek’s fingers with a renewed forcefulness. 

His knuckles brush a fast rhythm over Derek’s stomach as he works himself to completion and then his breath stutters and catches in his throat, and he’s pushing up from Derek, sitting up with a breathless cry as he comes all over Derek’s belly.

Derek finds that he can’t look away from the man in front of him and that he doesn’t particularly want to. The glow from the bedside lamp casts translucent shadows over Stiles’ broad shoulders, his spine is perfectly straight, his knuckles strained white as they squeeze over his cock, forcing each fat droplet of come over his reddened fingers, a benevolent smirk on his face as he rolls his hips, almost lazily, to a slow stop.

He sighs when Derek’s fingers slip from inside of him, leans forward to bestow small, lazy kisses on Derek’s mouth before he rolls over to lie on his back beside him.

They come down side-by-side, with deep and even breaths, lying together in an almost-silence and glancing at each other with identical affection but apart from that it’s a long, _long_ time before either of them can even be bothered to move.

-

They’re standing in Derek’s living room over two weeks later and getting ready for dinner when Derek first notices it.

They’re running late, running around in a hurried, panicked mess in the dash to get ready. 

Laura and Derek’s father are more than likely on their way to the restaurant right about now, (Talia had a last minute business meeting and Anthony and Alma have their attention understandably monopolised by their new baby girl, Luna) whilst Derek and Stiles are nowhere near being even close to heading out.

Isaac is sitting on the couch, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his laces undone and his expression twisted into that of annoyance.

It’s fair to say that he’s still slightly miffed that he won’t be accompanying Derek and Stiles to dinner.

“I want to see Papa and Aunt Laura’ _,_ he’d protested for the fifth time earlier, even after Derek’s numerous reasons for why he couldn’t on this particular night, and Derek is ashamed to say that he’d let his temper get the better of him, snapping at him.

Isaac had set his jaw and turned his face away from Derek, wiping a harsh hand over the gathering moisture in his eyes. 

He’d simply refused to listen to Derek, not even paying heed to his father’s stumbling apologies, his explanations that “Daddy’s just nervous about tonight, pup.” 

So now Derek’s just got off the phone to Erica, explaining to her that he and Stiles will be a little bit late in dropping off Isaac and Wolf, and he's now closing his eyes and wincing slightly as Wolf’s enthusiastic yapping reaches a higher octave, it makes the pressure headache he's sporting clash horribly against his skull.

Derek sighs gruffly and runs a hand over his face, and he’s so, _so_ ready for the day to be over.

“Are you ready to go now?” He hears Stiles gently ask from behind him. 

Derek’s half turned and answering with a weary, “Yeah, just about,” when he realises that Stiles is not, in fact, speaking to him.

Stiles is kneeling in front of Isaac, uncaring for the immaculate suit he’s wearing, hands dropped over the tops of Isaac’s sneakers, where he’d just finished tying his laces.

Isaac responds with a reluctant nod and hops off the couch when Stiles beckons him to. Isaac automatically moves to reach for his father’s hand even if he is, strictly speaking, temporarily ignoring Derek, but Derek squeezes his hand anyway.

Stiles stands up and brushes lint off of his slim dark slacks and buttons his blazer, looking satisfied with the outcome. He looks delectable, Derek notes, the suit making his shoulders stand in sharp relief and his waist trim and steady over his long lengs.

Then Stiles is picking up Isaac’s bright blue backpack and swinging it over his shoulder, reaching out to take Isaac’s hand and lead him out of the door. 

“Get the dog, Derek,” Stiles absently calls over his shoulder as he picks up Isaac and walks out of the living room, Derek’s car keys in hand. “And don’t forget to turn off the lights this time!”

By the time that Derek’s down at the garage Isaac is already in his car seat, playing _Super Mario_ on the game console that Talia had gifted him, whilst Stiles is in the passenger seat, seatbelt over his chest and phone in hand.

It’s then that Derek realises, as he’s walking towards them, Wolf trotting ahead of him on his leash: they look like a family.

They look like an honest-to-god, all-American _family_.

They're so intrinsically fitted together, so intrinsically linked that it makes something happy and carefree bubble up in Derek’s stomach, making his heart as light as his steps.

Stiles looks at him when he gets into the car, after depositing Wolf in the backseat, with his eyebrows raised in question.

But Derek shakes his head in dismissal and starts the car, backing them out of the garage, a small smile softening his features. 

Stiles returns his gaze to the glow of his phone screen, shrugging his shoulders mumbling a dubious, “ _Alright_ ,” at his boyfriend’s ridiculous expression.

Derek quickly drops off Isaac and Wolf, leaving the car running and Stiles seated in the passenger seat.

Wolf heads straight to the kitchen, ducking beneath Boyd’s legs, and Isaac immediately attempts to follow him but Derek catches him by the arm at the last minute, forcing him to look at his dad.

“That’s not how we say goodbye is it?” Derek chastises lightly, crouching in front of his son.

Isaac looks chagrined but he shakes his head in response nevertheless so Derek pulls him into a hug; it takes no more than a handful of seconds for Isaac to hug him back, just as tightly, and Derek thinks he can breathe easy for the first time that day. 

Derek hugs Boyd quickly, patting him once on the back and mumbling, “Thanks man,” before he’s sprinting back to the car.

It seems like far too long and no time at all before Derek’s fitting in the small of Stiles’ back and leading him to their table over by the back of the restaurant, with a nod of thanks to the waiter.

His father and Laura stand up immediately and he can feel Stiles tensing up in front of him, prompting Derek to push a little more forcefully at his back to guide him through his stumbling steps.

They barely reach the table before Laura loses her composure; she rounds the table quickly and throws herself at Derek, wrapping her arms around her brother’s neck and hugging him tightly, shaking with the force of it.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “I’m so, _so_ sorry Derek.” 

Derek, for his part, hugs her back just as tightly.

“I know,” he tells her, murmuring quietly against her ear. “I know.”

They haven’t seen each other since their fight all those weeks ago, hell, they hadn’t even _spoken_ to each other until Robert had made a three-way conference call with his two youngest children and demanded, with that occasional charismatic authority he held in his voice, that a dinner be scheduled. 

So now here they are, with Robert clapping Stiles on the back and shaking his hand with gusto, a wide, encouraging smile on his face, whilst Laura and Derek cling to each other, brimming with apologies they’re too prideful to admit to.

When Laura finally lets him go, she looks to Stiles, hesitating for a mere second before she’s throwing herself at _him_ and wrapping her arms around him too.

Stiles stumbles back half a step, stunned with the force of her embrace, stunned, in fact, with her _embracing_ him in the first place.

He holds himself stiffly at first but he does eventually place cautious, hesitant arms around her whilst Derek greets his father hello.

Conversation is stilted, when they eventually sit down to order, ineffective small talk, mostly propelled by Derek’s father, that falls flat in light of the great ominous cloud hanging over them.

Derek finds his hands curling over Stiles’ knee, leeching some of the fraught tension from his shoulders, tension that is particularly prominent whenever Laura addresses him.

Because the thing is that while Derek is more than used to the callous words that flow between he and his sister like venom in the crazed anger of the moment, it’s not that easily dismissible for Stiles.

Derek has no doubt that Stiles remembers every single thing that Derek had told him about his and Laura’s fight, and Derek knows that her forgiveness from Derek, and most certainly from Stiles, will not be so effortlessly gained from one civil meal together. 

It had taken Stiles just as long to even _think_ about forgiving Erica, because Stiles is stubborn, and rightly so, and he demands nothing short of grovelling from those who have hurt him and those he loves, either directly or indirectly. 

So when the waitress finally leaves with their menus, announcing that their meal should be ready quite soon, Robert stands up, buttons his tweed blazer over his green tie and asks Derek to accompany him to the bar. 

Derek knows precisely what his father is up to: allowing Laura and Stiles the space to hash out their differences without their intruding presence. Derek knows this, and he knows that both Stiles and Laura are adult enough to handle it without deteriorating into a screaming scandal in front of the entire restaurant, but that doesn’t soothe his worries.

It doesn’t soothe his worries at all when he can see Laura smooth out the non-existent wrinkles in her burgundy shift dress and tuck strands of her hair neatly behind her ears, a move that is uncannily reminiscent of their mother, in order to avoid Stiles’ gaze.

Stiles who sits rigidly in his chair, jaw set and mouth a tight line, not in anger or frustration but rather a nervous sort of apprehension. 

But Derek doesn’t intervene; instead he follows his father through the crowded room to where the bar is settled on the other side.

Robert adjusts his glasses, hails the waiter and orders them two neat whiskeys before he looks at his son; pale green eyes boring into him.

“So you’re dating now,” his father says first. Derek breathes a sigh of relief when he detects no source of disappointment or any sort of judgement in his words.

Despite himself, Derek finds himself blushing to the tips of his ears, just like the first time he had a crush on a fellow prepubescent classmate and decided to confide in his father.

“It’s a little more than dating,” Derek mumbles, swirling his fingers on the polished wood top. 

“What was that?” Robert teases, cupping his hand to his ear and straining towards Derek. “Could you repeat that, son? I don’t think I quite heard correctly the first time.”

Derek narrows his eyes towards his father, glowers at the unfeasible gratification his father is taking in his embarrassment.

Robert chuckles heartily, leaning forward to ruffle Derek’s hair and casually destroying the countless minutes of work it took Derek’s hair to look just-so.

“Come on, Derek,” his father says, smiling at him. “Let me enjoy this. You’re happy. You’re actually undeniably _happy_ , and that’s more than any of us can say has happened for a long time.” 

“I know,” Derek sighs. Accepting the drink the tender places in front of him with a thankful nod. “It just-. It doesn’t feel _real_ yet, dad, and I-. I’m trying as hard as I can to make things turn out okay but it’s just so damn hard.” 

“It’s bound to be,” Robert says gently, suddenly serious all at once. “Of course it’s going to be, Derek. But you deserve to be happy. You and Isaac, you deserve the world, kid. And if Stiles is the one who makes you happy then by all means you _grasp_ it, and you grasp it with all the force you can muster.”

Derek’s always known that his father’s been exceptionally talented at inspiring people, and Derek’s always stunned speechless at the end of each of his talks, staring at his dad in amazement and wondering why he never went into guidance counselling.

“Okay,” Derek replies weakly, he clears his throat and then more purposefully. “Yeah, okay. Definitely.”

“And I trust he’s a good man?” 

Derek’s eyes stray towards their table, where Stiles is leaning forward and across to Laura, hands gesticulating wildly as she sombrely nods along to whatever he’s saying.

“The best,” Derek assures his father. 

“Now, I’m not going to say anything about the way Laura or Erica handled the news of your relationship,” Robert says after a moment, glancing at Derek in a way that means that they were both extensively interrogated about and chastised for their behaviour. “But the way that _you_ handled the news of your relationship could do with some improvements, wouldn’t you agree?” 

Derek nods sheepishly, ducking away from his father’s gaze. 

“Perhaps you’ll try to not keep such monumental secrets from us in the future, eh?” 

Derek once again nods in agreement, knowing full well that his father’s tone of voice means that he’ll _not_ be keeping _any_ secret whatsoever from his parents in the foreseeable future.

“I nearly tore apart my relationship with our family because of this whole thing,” Derek says, before taking a generous gulp of his whiskey.

“But you didn’t,” Robert dismisses breezily. “And we’re here today, completely safe and utterly united. Let’s not focus on the negatives.” 

Derek sighs, but he can’t help the smile that brightens his face at the easy acceptance of his father, though of course, because it _is_ his life, the tender moment is completely shattered mere seconds later.

“Or maybe just try to better at keeping secrets,” Robert says gravelly before he pauses, looking at his son with an air of considerate mocking. “I mean a box of condoms, _really_ Derek?” 

Derek drops his head to the bar with an audible _thunk_ ; embarrassment blazing his cheeks a fiery red. 

His family. Seriously. 

- 

Later, and despite his father’s encouraging words, Derek still finds himself cautiously keeping track of where Stiles and Laura sit locked into a heated conversation on the other side of the restaurant.

Their conversation is at a perfectly inaudible level, very appropriate in a crowded restaurant such as this. But Derek _knows_ them, he knows that the way that they work.

He can easily read the frustration and the irritation in Stiles’ shoulders, he can easily determine the contrite stubbornness in Laura’s face and he’s worried. He’s worried that perhaps the animosity between them is not diminishing, and instead it will create a greater chasm between them all.

Derek’s so intent in his perusal of their body language that he almost startles when his father stands up beside him, looking perfectly unaffected, buttoning his blazer with nonchalance.

“Where are you going?” Derek blurts out.

“I’m going to ask Stiles his opinion on Chaucer,” Robert tells him, a single eyebrow lifted as if he’s surprised at why Derek’s even asking in the first place. “You stay here and finish your drink.”

Derek watches, incredulously, as Robert positively saunters across the room, navigating the tables with sophisticated ease. He watches as he places a friendly hand on Stiles’ shoulder, and Derek sees how Stiles deflates, all of his anger seeping out and leaving only a residual trace of it in the line of his shoulder.

Half a minute later, Laura is sinking into the seat their father had just vacated, grabbing his glass of whiskey for her own. 

“Loser,” she greets in her customary way. Derek doesn’t fail to notice the hesitancy in her voice. 

“Laura.”

They sip their drinks in near silence, the buzz of the restaurant shoving into the spaces of the uncomfortable lull between them.

“I’m sorry,” Laura says gently.

“So you’ve said,” Derek replies, and he’s not at all sorry for the clipped tone to his words. 

“I _am_ sorry,” she stresses, reaching out to grasp his arm. “Derek, I didn’t mean what I said. You have to believe that.” 

Derek regards her, from the uncertainty of her posture to the tremble in her hand and to the imploration of her eyes.

“Prove it.”

Laura nods, once, decisively.

And that’s all there is to it, the way that it always has been between them.

It’s not the end of this, of course and nor is it going to be this easy all of the time but it’s a start and that’s all that Derek needs right now.

They finish their drinks in silence, though the chasm between them has shortened considerably, and the quiet space linking them can be considered almost comfortable.

They’re standing up to head back to their table when Derek snorts out a disbelieving laugh. 

“What?” Laura asks immediately, teetering closer to him on her stilettos, she’s never been entirely too patient. “What, dickwad? _What?_ ”

Derek throws a brazen look over his shoulder at her, “I just can’t believe that you, self-proclaimed lawyer extraordinaire, just got scolded. By _Stiles_ of all people.” 

Laura’s face sours as she directs a withering look at her younger brother, but then she tips her chin forward, looking almost insolently casual when she delicately shrugs one shoulder. “He’s a sharp kid.” 

Derek snorts out another laugh, full of mocking derision, and isn’t fast enough to duck from under Laura scuffing him around the ear.

When they get back to the table, and Derek spies the waiter coming through the kitchen with their order, Robert is leaning back in his chair; one arm crossed over his chest, supporting his other arm as he presses a thoughtful hand to his mouth, nodding along seriously, with a wildly interested glint in his eye, at Stiles’ ten minute monologue on Chaucer’s influence on modern American literature.   

- 

Stiles leans almost absently on Derek as they enter the elevator in Derek’s apartment block, he fits under Derek’s arm with an easy intimacy, nodding listlessly in reply to Derek’s half-formed conversation.

Stiles is distracted, texting Scott the details of the dinner, he simply refuses to divulge the details to Derek about what he and Laura discussed however, and snickering to himself with each presentation of some old inside joke between them.

And Derek’s _content_ , more so than he has been in a very long time, so he doesn’t mind that he’s not the centre of Stiles’ attention span right now. All that matters is the knowledge that Stiles is relaxed around him.

He’s standing so close to Derek that he can feel the other man’s breath on his cheek, he’s leaning his weight on Derek’s shoulder, curling into him as he wraps an arm around Derek’s waist and texts Scott with his other. 

All that matters is that Stiles is comfortable enough in himself that he doesn’t bother to hide the way that his face scrunches up and he wheezes a laugh in response to one of his best friend’s texts.

In the end there’s nothing for Derek to do other than to kiss his temple and gently nudge him out of the elevator when they reach their floor.

Derek’s already loosening his tie by the time that they’re in the hallway, he hangs up his coat on the stand beside the door and, because he’s a perfectly doting boyfriend, he helps Stiles out of his own too; whilst the other man does nothing but switch his phone from one hand to the other as he slinks his arm out of the sleeve.

Derek rolls his eyes and leaves Stiles’ stationary form in the corridor, heading into the kitchen.

He dumps his blazer haphazardly over one of the barstools before he rounds the counter and begins to fix himself a mug of coffee.

He’s just about to pour the steaming water over his mug when Stiles enters the kitchen and wraps his arms around Derek’s middle.

“Babe,” he sighs, Derek turns to throw an incredulous look at him, raising a single eyebrow in question at the new moniker. Stiles however, makes no apology, merely kisses Derek’s cheek before he buries his face in the collar of his shirt. “Make me some coffee.” 

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Derek tells him, expertly raising the kettle as the hot stream of water falls into the cup. “But I distinctly remember you having your own, perfectly capable, pair of working hands.”

He can feel Stiles’ smirk against his skin, from where he’s nosing at the underside of Derek’s jaw, his hands trailing down over Derek’s stomach, reaching down low to grope at Derek through his dress slacks. “I _bet_ you do.”

Derek simply bats Stiles’ hands away; it’d be no good to spill coffee all over his pristine shirt after all.

In retaliation, Stiles smacks Derek’s ass and pushes away from him, he pulls his tie over his head as he begins to walk out of the kitchen.

“I’m going to get changed,” Stiles tells him, with a look over his shoulder, briefly pausing at the threshold, “You better have some coffee ready for me, Hale.”

“You’re an idiot, Stilinski.” Derek informs him, loudly. But he dutifully begins to make Stiles his coffee.

From down the hall, the voice distorted by the echo of the tiles comes the yelled response: “I love you too, babe!”

Once he’s finished, Derek places both mugs on the kitchen table and grabs his blazer from the stool, swinging it over his shoulder as he heads towards the bedroom.

He has less of a stubble and more of a beard now, he thinks, as he scratches the pads of his fingers through the coarse hair on his cheeks.

In other, more distant times, he’d probably consider picking up a razor; consider going back to a more clean-shaven look; but Derek’s noticed that Stiles seems to enjoy it, spending countless moments rubbing his lips numb over the hard line of Derek’s jaw.

It’s always little details like this, completely ordinary details, that makes Derek’s heart swell. The feeling of knowing that he has someone new, someone _good_ , in his life now always settles like a pleasant weight at the bottom of his stomach.

The sight of Stiles, when Derek steps over the threshold of his bedroom, makes him stutter to a stop.

Stiles is on his knees, hands curled into loose fists over his thighs, slacks stretched tight over his lap and the collar of his shirt hanging carelessly open where he had began to unbutton them.

His head is tipped slightly to the side, mouth open, eyes wide and Derek can hear his breathing from where he’s standing.

Stiles is baring his neck and the pale flush that floods the lithe line of it makes for an extraordinary contrast with the dark, cold metal of the gun barrel pressed up tight against the hollow just behind his ear.

His gaze catches Derek’s for a split second, sheer terror sparking behind his wet eyes, before they slide away to the ground and he shivers, a visible swallow working his throat. 

Kate is stood next to Stiles, legs perfectly apart, hair tied up in a neat ponytail, rose blush powdered daintily on the sharp crest of her cheekbones, holding the gun as easily as fire.  

She smiles when Derek’s eyes reach her: wide and dangerous, looking so at ease with the terror she inspires.

Derek’s hand slips unbidden from his shoulder in shock, his blazer falling into a silken mess to the floor as he stands there, wordlessly taking in the sight.

Kate tips her head to the side, looking almost girlish in her expression and Derek feels an uncomfortable familiarity at the look of near-fondness in her eyes.

Then she bares her teeth at Derek, and it’s paralytic, like an exquisite danger, but he can’t look away.

She licks her lips, “Hi, honey.”

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun, dun, DUUUN! 
> 
> Please, we all knew that was coming at some point! 
> 
> Until next week (hopefully!) :)


	23. Nitesky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Guys!
> 
> I hope you've had a great week, I'm really sorry this is a couple of days late, I've just been super busy and super exhausted but I hope you like it anyway!  
> Many of you'll probably recognise this week's song, it's 'Nitesky' by Robot Koch and it was on the Season 2 soundtrack, namely the Jackson/Lydia scene but I saw it on a Sterek vid and I could not get it out of my head, for reals!  
> Now, for this week's chapter there are some warnings: Violence, Ableist language, mild non-con, references to domestic abuse and Kate being really mean about Isaac, I mean really. Ugh. 
> 
> For Brie, I hope you had a fantastic birthday dude, sorry I couldn't get this chapter up for you on Sunday but I hope you had a brilliant, awesome time! :)

[  
If you let my soul out, it will come right back to you.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P0PkOBFDUUA&list=PLgnxrTrD23zQLT9ILLqmwjuXZFWlp1MSr)

-

While it’s true that silence, and the overall lack of _substantial_ noise, has been a monumental part of Derek’s life in the past few months, he hasn’t felt it quite as keenly as he does in this very moment.

It’s not a silence, not when he really thinks about it, not when he can still hear the low, penetrating buzz of the apartment, the relentless _tick-tick-ticking_ of the clock on the mantelpiece and the dull steady tapping of Kate’s boots on the hardwood.

But it’s definitely the quietening of _something_.

Derek can hear nothing but the rush of blood in his ears and it’s almost like the real world is a thousand miles away, shielded away to the far corners of his periphery behind a shroud, and it feels like he’s trapped.

Derek’s locked into place, unable to quite understand what’s going on, he looks into Kate’s face and he feels …

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

It’s a sad kind of dullness that wraps around his heart like a vice and leaves him ice cold and trembling.

He finds it hard to turn his eyes away from her, from the way that she looks so familiar and yet so foreign, standing with her hips cocked in easy self-assurance and a smirk on her lips.

Her posture only serves to remind Derek of the great differences between his current love and his old one, of the way that they’re on opposite ends of the spectrum; Kate who is savouring the tension in the air with relish, liking the way that it crackles and fizzles like blood infused with venom and so, _so_ different from Stiles.

Stiles who is still kneeling on the floor, cheeks flushed red and his eyes downcast, and yet still brimming with the reluctance to stand down, refusing to give up.

It stops Derek cold to see him like this, because that’s the moment it really hits him, that’s the moment that he realises that for Stiles it’s not just about Derek’s ex-girlfriend turning up of the woodwork.

No, for Stiles?

For Stiles it’s about being held at _gunpoint_ , with a circle of cold metal sinking into his skin, it’s about how his life could end with one minute flick of Kate’s fingertips, how the bullet at the end of that barrel is locked into place and so damn close to being fired.

And it petrifies Derek how Kate’s so willing to let those bullets fly. She stands there, smirking at him like there’s nothing at all wrong with the tension she’s creating.

So for Stiles to kneel there, with his shoulders set and his mouth pressed into a hard, tight line, absolutely not breaking down, _refusing_ to let Kate get the better of him is astounding to Derek, it’s mesmerising.

Derek's barely a breath’s away from collapsing in on himself, like a black hole at the centre of the universe, bringing down everything around him; but it’s intuitive for him to move forward, to move towards Stiles in order to comfort him and kiss him and take him away from all the damned danger. 

He’s faltering towards Stiles before he quite realises.

“ _Ah-ah_ ,” Kate warns, she brings up a single finger to halt him, eyebrow raised like he’s a disobedient child. She presses the barrel of the gun more firmly against Stiles head, dislodging it a few centimetres higher and revealing the bright red circle it's left behind.

She hardens her gaze towards Derek, her voice low in her throat as she threatens, “Make one move, just _one_ more move Derek, and we’ll see just how nice his brain will look splattered all over your walls.”

Derek stops immediately, and his eyes swivel from Stiles’ face towards Kate’s, shadowed now with a strange sort of determination, harsh and unfeeling, that drops over her features like a vapour.

“Kate,” Derek says, sighs it out like he’s weary. It feels like forever since he’s spoken, longer still since he’s said her name and he can feel the panic beginning to grip at his insides.

She lifts a sardonic eyebrow, tilting her head to the side in mocking amusement, “Derek?”

Derek wants to move, he wants to decimate her with his words, hurt her with every vicious thing he has kept festering at him for years and years and _years_ , beating into his skin like a tattoo. He wants to unleash the hatred for her that has made him torn and frayed, like a firefly rising from the chaos with his wings beaten and broken.

“Don’t,” Derek warns, voice steady and tight as he flicks his eyes to where Stiles’ has his honeyed gaze trained on him; and he remembers the way they look so early in the morning, too early even for the sun, when it’s just about to dawn and Stiles’ eyes are sticky with sleep and adorned with soft affection.

So Derek repeats, “ _Don’t._  Kate, not him, he- just leave him out of this. He has nothing to do with whatever the hell it is you want.”

“He has everything to do with it, Derek,” Kate snaps and her penchant for aloof dismissal drops like a veil, revealing the dangerous glare of hurt pride lurking beneath. “He’s had _everything_ to do with it ever since he spread his pretty legs for you.”

Derek could deny it, he could; he could tell her that Stiles is nothing more than an overfriendly employee, or an acquaintance and nothing more, if only to save Stiles from her wrath.

But there’s absolutely no denying it, not with Stiles’ practically living with Derek as he is, with his clothes tossed in amongst Derek’s in the wardrobe, his books stacked on the bedside table and his overnight bag thrown haphazardly on the bed where he’d dropped his blazer and his tie.

Derek knows Kate, knows her well enough to anticipate her movements, he knows how patient she can be, and he knows, he _knows_ that she must have been watching him, watching _them_ for a long time.

He wonders how he could have been so stupid as to let his guard down, to think for even one single moment that she wouldn’t be back. 

Derek can only give simple thanks to whatever smidgeon of luck that has attached to him that his son, his little Isaac isn’t here to see the destruction that Kate is bringing with her.

The woman standing in front of him is a completely different beast altogether from the one he knew, from the one he fell in love with.

She moves with a serpentine fluidity, flickering between crude malevolence and sophisticated danger as easily as she familiarises herself with the violence she stimulates.

She moves so that she stands behind Stiles, exchanging the gun with her other hand, the action so quick that Derek scarcely has time to blink between one movement and the other.

She slinks her fingers through Stiles’ hair, sinking forward from the crown of his head to his fringe, where she tightens her hand on the loose brown locks with a vicious tenacity and _yanks_ his head back.

Derek flinches at the same time that Stiles does, feeling the bile rise up in his throat at the wounded gasp that dies at the back of Stiles’ throat, the way that he screws his eyes shut against the pain and his throat works tightly as it’s exposed to Derek, his hands flying up, in vain, to relieve the pressure from Kate’s fingers.

Derek makes to move forward again, but Kate sinks he barrel of the gun into the vulnerable softness beneath Stiles’ jaw, pushing it up so deeply that Derek can see the too-fast pace of Stiles’ pulse hammering away beneath his skin.

Kate locks eyes with Derek, sinking slowly to the ground behind Stiles.

She crouches on her haunches, like a predator, one hand still tightly twisted up in Stiles’ hair and the other wrapped securely around the gun pressing into Stiles’ skin.

“I should blow your brains out right here,” she growls low in Stiles’ ear, emphasising her words with a tight pull on Stiles’ hair, making a strangled cry surge from his throat.

But her eyes are firmly fixed on Derek’s, her gaze pinning him in place, “I should teach you not to _touch_ what’s not yours.”

She pushes him then, pressing her hand between his shoulder blades and careening Stiles forward with so much force that he has to catch himself, with the stinging slap of his palms on the hardwood, to stop himself from smashing his face on the ground.

There’s barely a second’s remiss before Kate is crouching over Stiles, pressing the gun to the nape of his neck and snapping off the safety with whirling _click_ that sucks out all of the oxygen of the rom.

“No!” Derek yells, stumbling forward. “Kate, don’t! No _please_ , please!”

He doesn’t even remember moving, but all of a sudden Derek’s on his knees, a hair’s breadth away from Stiles’ heaving form, with a hand lifted up towards Kate in a helpless plea.

He’s talking, he’s sure of it; mumbling half-incoherent implorations while his eyes flicker from Stiles to Kate and back again. He’s begging, absolutely _begging_ for her to spare Stiles’ life.

She must see something in Derek’s eyes, or hear something in the desperation of his voice, or maybe even Derek underestimated the amount of humanity that’s still left in her, because she observes the way that he tries to contort himself to protect Stiles and she stops.

Something passes through her face, an expression that Derek can’t spare enough energy to try to figure out when he can barely even stomach looking at her, but he sees the way that it changes her bearing.

She pulls back, after a hesitant second, and holds the gun a little more leisurely, with less of an intention to kill.

She’s seemingly relaxed but Derek sees the breaks in her façade now; he can see the halting reluctance beneath the fluidity of her movements and the quiet desperation behind her unfathomable mask. 

She stands up, towering over them, but she isn’t smirking anymore.

“Get up,” she snarls instead, lips curling back over her teeth.

Derek kneels motionlessly beneath her, staring up with hesitant disbelief, breath caught in his throat.

Stiles is still on all fours in front of him, with his head hanging low and his breathing fragmented, harsh and slow, his shoulders shaking from the effort it’s taking him to remain upright.

“Get _up_ ,” Kate repeats, the words garbled between the thick grit of her teeth.

Her eyes go wide and crazed and she aims a perfunctory, absolutely unforgiving kick at the arch of Stiles’ foot, making him crumble to the ground with a cry.

Derek rushes forward, grasping Stiles by the arm and pulling him into his chest, helping the other man up to a standing position whilst mumbling stumbled apologies into his hair.

Kate wrenches Stiles from Derek’s grip and holds him by the upper arm, gun pointed in Derek’s direction.

What stings the most is not the fact that Kate is back, or that she’s here with every intention of causing as much as she possibly can.

No, what hurts the most, what cuts through Derek, like swift blocks of ice on the surface of the sea, is the look of utter resignation on Stiles’ face as soon as the barrel of the gun swings towards Derek’s countenance.

Just seconds before he’d had that _look_ on his face, the look that meant he was thinking, _really_ thinking; the gears of his mind turning and churning whilst he actively thought of a way out of whatever predicament he’d found himself in.

Stiles was impulsive when it came to things like this, when it came to real life split-second decisions, and he almost always chose the most asinine method of dealing with it.

Derek wouldn’t be surprised if his plan was to run, _run_ as fast as he could away from Kate, with his hand in Derek’s and a trail of blazing bullets flying rife behind them.

But then, _then_ the focus shifted from him to Derek, and the stakes were much higher.

Derek sees the precise moment when Stiles realises that the gun isn’t on him anymore, he sees the way that his whole expression shuts down, the way that his posture becomes more rigid, his air that of someone who is resigned to their fate.

-

The journey from Derek’s bedroom to the living room is a tangled mess of memory; a blur of malevolent threats, shuffling steps and guns against backs.

Kate instructs Derek to sit on the couch, _commands_ it really, and he does so if only of being in fear of Stiles being hurt.

Kate throws Stiles at him, he falls messily over Derek’s lap and they cling to each other, both holding tightly to the other’s hand to tether them to the ground.

Derek shifts so that Stiles is sitting beside him, he runs hurried fingers through his hair, the back of his neck, the tender skin of his jaw, everywhere that that dreaded gun touched him.

Derek rubs gentle thumbs over Stiles’ cheeks, swiping the scant few tears beneath Stiles’ reddened eyes.

“Are you alright?” Derek asks Stiles, whispering to him in urgency. “Stiles? Are you _okay_?”

“I’m fine,” he replies, but his voice is small, cracked. “I’m fine, Derek.”

He sees the look in Derek’s face and shakes his head minutely, his hands come up to circle around Derek’s wrists and they tug slightly, his eyes issuing a brief, silent warning.

Kate is still in the room and now the minutes find them waiting, like sitting ducks, for the return of her spiteful swinging pendulum.

Stiles’ eyes flick over to Kate before he quickly and discreetly places a warm kiss on the palm of Derek’s hand. Then he shifts back to sit, rigid and distinctively composed, on the opposite end of the couch.

Derek sits, feeling more alone than he has in a while, casting furtive glances at Stiles, and wishing for the comfort of his heat, nostalgic of the times where their only preoccupation was themselves and Isaac.

For a time when they had no worries for the uncertainty of the situation and when they weren’t just waiting, and _waiting_ , for the inevitable crack and splinter of violence.

Kate walks back and forth in front of them, gun held securely in her hand as she trails fingers over the trinkets that have accumulated in the living room as a result of their chaotic, ordinary life.

Her hand mars a path over the stack of library books on the windowsill that Stiles has yet to return, over the blocks of Lego’s that Isaac hasn’t yet put away, over the tumble of Wolf’s toys and around the mirror on the mantle that reflects the apprehension on both Derek and Stiles’ faces.

This is what gets to Derek the most, this feeling of relentless apprehension that swirls around him like a black, frothing cornucopia of anxiety. It bubbles low in his throat, like bile and acid, and it makes him want to scream.

When Derek looks over to his left, to Stiles still in his ivory shirt and his midnight blue dress slacks, he notices that he’s not still. He’s rigid, yes, but he’s not still, not at all.

Stiles has his hands grasped in front of him, fingers painfully clutching at each other in a hollow attempt to stop the shaking.

It’s instinctive for Derek; now and after all they’ve been through, to shift over and reach a hand out to Stiles, to gently disentangle his hands and to thread his own fingers through Stiles’.

Stiles looks at him and Derek feels his heart stutter to a stop for a second, because Stiles’ eyes, though they are wide and fearful, hold the smallest glimmer of determination.

Their gazes catch and hold, the swirling amber of Stiles’ eyes locked on to the paleness of Derek’s own, and he feels it then; the integrity of the trust that they share between them, and it’s almost like a solid thing - immaculate and untouched by the suffocating silence of the room around them.

Derek feels his love for the man pour out of him in waves as they squeeze their hands together in solidarity.

He doesn’t know how long they hold each other’s gazes, trying to communicate the mutual consolation between them, it could be a momentary second or long, drawn out minutes for all he knows.

He jumps, however, when the shrill sound of breaking glass pierces through the air and like a rocket, reaches his ears.

He looks over back at Kate to see that she’s standing over by the mantelpiece, a shower of glass around her boots and a bright yellow picture frame lying cracked and facedown on the ground.

Derek recognises the frame, it’s the one that he had bought only a few weeks prior from the crafts fair that both Isaac _and_ Stiles had insisted they visit.

It’s a radiant yellow frame, made of carefully wrought clay delicately painted with a bright orange sun smiling down from the top right hand corner, smiling down at the photograph of Isaac and Wolf.

In the photograph Isaac is dressed in a [Tardis onesie](http://www.red5.co.uk/onesie-doctor-who-tardis.aspx), he’s sitting on his butt with the hood pulled over his brown curls and a toothy grin aimed at Stiles behind the camera. 

He has a hand thrown over Wolf’s back, where he sits on his haunches beside him, he’s snuffling at Isaac’s hand where the pen marks that are scribbled all over his arm look as if dark, murky ink is flowing through his veins.

“Woops,” Kate says, voice free from any form of inflection and her gaze trained on Derek and Stiles’ linked hands. "Would you look at that?"

She’s standing frozen, her hands still quirked in mid-air, fresh from tumbling the frame down and she stares at them; almost like she’s looking through them sitting there, seeing nothing but the physical admittance that Derek is well and truly over her.

Something quick and indistinct flashes through her expression, it’s almost like fury but not, almost like humiliation but not.

It’s unclear and dim, like a light at the very far edge of a foggy horizon and it unnerves Derek.

It shakes him to the core, and he feels a slither of dread slip down his spine. She turns then, lifting the gun at Stiles’ face, placing her finger on the trigger, closing one eye and aiming.

She tips her head to the side, ponytail falling in a golden mess over her shoulder, as she regards Stiles, like it’s a game to be won.

She grins, wide and sweet, before mimicking pulling the trigger.

“ _Bang_ ,” Kate croons. “Bang, _bang_ and the bitch is dead.”

Derek breathes in harshly, but Stiles merely tips his chin up in defiance. He squeezes Derek’s hand firmly once before he lets go.

Kate pauses for a second; regarding Stiles intently as he shuffles back a little, and they’re both looking at each other with blatant contempt.

She moves over to the armchair opposite Stiles and Derek, glass crunching beneath her boots, and she sprawls in it, looking relaxed and perfectly at home.

She moves with a familiarity around the apartment that chills Derek to the bone, and he has to wonder how long she’s been watching him, how much she has seen and how many damn times she's walked in his house without his knowing.

With a flick of her wrist the pile of blankets stacked up on the arm of the chair she’s in tumbles to the ground, falling in a heap of ivory crochet, egg blue cotton and tartan wool.

The only thing that Derek can think about is the concentration on his son’s face earlier that day as he carefully followed Stiles’ instructions as they folded his blankets after his television hour had finished; Derek can’t help but think that the painstaking effort was all for naught.

Kate looks back at them and she looks almost bored. She settles back in her chair and simply watches them, swinging one leg over the other when she notices them squirming in their discomfort.

She watches them for a long time, studying them with sharp attention, but her face is devoid of any significant emotion, blank and impassive.

-

Stiles is the one who breaks the silence, and Derek feels like that shouldn’t surprise him, even though it’s been _hours_ since any of them have spoken.

Derek had noticed him getting increasingly more anxious, his eyes darting from place to place, his fingers twitching, vibrating inside of his skin and Kate had watched him, entranced.

She’d looked at him like was a piece of art, one she could hardly wait to begin to take apart, to compartmentalise each and every significant bit, from his bouncing knee to his bite-reddened lips.

Derek had noticed the twitchiness a long time ago, when the minutes still felt like minutes instead of decades and centuries.

Stiles chews on the side of his thumb, he trembles and he seethes, “What do you want?”

Kate raises her eyebrows at him slightly, but she doesn’t say a word, looking at him with amusement in her eyes.

Stiles takes his hand away from his mouth and he leans forward, hissing, “What the _hell_ do you want?”

And so Kate begins, gun hanging limply from her hand, “I want ...”

She blinks and she sighs, humming gently before she swiftly swivels her gaze to Derek.

“I want _Derek_ ,” she says leisurely, elongating her syllables with the air of someone deep in thought. “I want Derek and, _and_ I want…”

She pauses again, long and overly heavy. It irritates Derek, the way that she’s manipulating them, keeping them anxious with her pauses and her guessing games.

If only he could figure out what she’s _waiting_ for, they’ve been here for hours, she could have killed them by now; she certainly wants to make them suffer, but for _what_ , Derek doesn’t know.

She’s watching him with a certain look on her face, with excitement ahead of him finally figuring it out, settling all the puzzle pieces just like she wants him to.

“I thought you were dead,” Derek says instead.

Kate looks surprised for a split second, and Derek thinks: _good_.

And it’s not a lie, on the days where his memories came back with a vengeance, forcing him back into that dark, dank space beneath his skin, he’d genuinely thought she was dead; he’d hear nothing but the clacking of Laura’s heels on his floor tiles and her voice reiterating the crash, and he’d think Kate was dead.

But Kate is here now, breathing and inspiring terror with every passing moment, and she recovers quickly, firing a swift grin in Derek’s direction.

“A puzzle,” Kate tells him. “For you. Honey, you _do_ know how much I love making you work. And I loved watching you work and worry and _work_.”

“Then what the hell are you waiting for?” Derek snarls, the words frothing between his teeth as he lurches forward.

Stiles stops him with a hand wrapped vice-tight around Derek’s arm, his eyes warily tracking the gun that Kate now holds poised to fire in her grip.

Despite her offensive stance, Derek can see the glimmer in Kate’s eyes, she’s _enjoying_ this, he realises and it cuts through him.

“ _What the hell are you waiting for?”_ Derek growls at her, the very last shred of his patience withering out like fog.

Kate looks startled for once, the blood rushes out of her face, her lips tighten and her hand clutches even more desperately around the gun.

But it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter because then Derek has a singular moment of clarity. 

 _Isaac_.

She wants Isaac.

Of course she does, Derek realises; she wants to hurt him and there’s no better way to do that than to target his son.

He sees the exact moment she realises that he knows why she’s why she’s _waiting_.

A small indulgent smile flickers over her face, but then she blinks and it’s gone.

“I’m waiting for you,” she says, widening her eyes and she looks almost lost, voice softening into a murmur. “Just you, honey.”

And something snaps inside Derek, his entire body tenses up and he points an accusing finger at her.

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Derek seethes, face like thunder. “Don’t you fucking _dare_ , Kate. You don’t get to come here and act like you _ever_ loved me.”

Bitterness pulls at Kate’s lips and a heavy frown mars her face, “I gave you up.”

Derek shakes his head, anger coursing through him, trembling against Stiles' tight grip. “ _No_.”

“I gave you up!” Kate rages, standing up in her seat. “You and that _bastard_ child.”

“He’s your son!” Derek yells, not moving only because of the strong grip Stiles has on his arm, the soft words Stiles murmurs against him.

“He’s _your_ son,” Kate retorts, swinging her gun with abandon, and then she looks desperate, gulping a deep breath. “He’s my baby _,_ but he’s _your_ son. And I hate him, Derek; he’s my baby but I can’t _stand_ to look at him when I know you’ll always want him more than you will me. So don’t _tell_ me I haven’t given you up.”

“You _used_ me,” Derek snarls in retaliation, the sound low in his throat. Stiles tightens his hand around his bicep and Derek uses that simple touch to ground himself.

“You broke me every single time you tormented me after you _fucked_ me,” he spits out the word like it physically pains him. “And then acted like it never even happened. It tore me apart, Kate, knowing that I’d never have that with you, that I wouldn’t be able to make love to you and still expect you to be the same person I fell for.”

Derek can feel Stiles’ sharp intake of breath next to him, how he tries to fold himself close to Derek in comfort but Derek pays no heed to it, it feels almost cathartic to get all of this out in the open.

“You threw me away,” Derek continues and he stares into the look of pseudo-despondency in Kate’s face. “You broke me and it took _everything_ I had to put myself back together, so don’t think that I’m going to fall back into your trap again.”

The silence simmers on after that, but Derek feels good, almost whole.

-

Kate composes herself from the look of surprise distress quickly, efficiently, and so completely that Derek is under no doubts as to why she was able to fool him for all those years.

Derek pushes away from Stiles a little, to breath deep and harsh, running desperate fingers through his hair. 

Then Kate is stalking forward; eyes glistening with intent, hips swinging and Derek is reminded of just how much he was attracted to her, how much he _loved_ her and _how_ he loved her: all at once or not at all.

Kate's stunning, Derek knows, but in all the wrong ways.

She stops just short of Derek before she’s dropping her knees on either side of his legs and straddling his lap.

Stiles immediately moves forward, but the instinctive need to protect Derek is thwarted by the gun that Kate levels to his face.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” she simpers at him, sinister and callous. “Move back.”

Stiles’ gaze cuts to Derek instantly, Derek who tries to convey to Stiles that he’s _okay_ , that he will be okay even if his skin feels like it’s slowly burning with disgust.

He tries to regulate his breathing and tries to ignore the fact that Kate, _Kate_ , is here, on top of him, her hand anchored on his shoulder like it belongs there.

And Derek, Derek is _thinking_. His mind feels like it’s being pulled in a hundred different directions, but he’s sure that he’d be able to figure out a way to get them out of this situation without causing them any harm.

He could work it out, he knows he could, and he tries to tell all of this to Stiles even as he’s keeping quiet and planning. Derek meets Stiles’ gaze and he tries to say _‘I’m okay’_ and _‘I’ll get us out of here’_ and _‘I love you’_ but it’s hard when he can feel the encroaching disillusionment sink further down into his bones with every passing second that Kate touches him.

Stiles seems to figure it out nevertheless and Derek knows it isn’t just wishful thinking when he reads the same words in Stiles’ expression, in the hesitant nod of his anxious expression as he moves away.

Kate taunts, “Further, and further, further _still_ ,” until Stiles is on the other side of the room, and when he’s far enough for her to anticipate any of his movements, but still keeping with her line of vision, she smiles, " _Good_ boy."

Then she turns her attention on Derek, and his heart palpitates when he realises that the only thing separating the gun from his skin is the thin layer of his dress shirt.

“I missed you,” Kate says and she smiles when she says it, sad, small and soft. It completely throws him. “I missed you so much, Derek.”

Her eyes rove across his face, gentle and slow, taking him in, like she’s catching up on the months and months they’ve been away from each other.

The gun, nestled in Kate’s hand, moves almost absently; tracing a path over his chest, his collarbone, the line of his neck to settle, hard and imposing, beneath his jaw.

Derek can feel his pulse flicker against the metal, quick and fast like a speeding bullet and he doesn’t like it, not at all. He swallows hard and forces himself to look into Kate’s eyes, his hands into tight fists beside him.

Kate tips his head back with her gun and leans forward slowly, her eyes locked on his, brimming with crazed affectation so Derek keeps himself so very still, as still as he possibly can while her breath washes over his mouth.

He can feel Stiles’ gaze on them but Derek doesn’t dare look, he doesn’t think he can take seeing the hurt at witnessing _this_ , playing out over Stiles’ features.

She doesn’t close her eyes until the very last second, until her mouth is on his. Kate kisses his slack lips with her eyes fluttering closed and a sigh on her tongue, and Derek feels sick. Sick to his stomach.

He watches her face, with some sort of disgusted awe, and he’s so keenly aware of Stiles’ presence that it hurts.

It’s right there and then, with Kate’s face unfocused and blurred, so near to him, _kissing_ him that Derek decides he’s had enough, enough for a lifetime; far too much.

It’s not just about him anymore, Derek realises, and he’s above everything that she thinks he deserves. Because Derek has a family now, he has a son and a boyfriend and his friends and family and so many people in his life that deserve him when he’s _not_ beaten and broken.

What he needs is to take control of his life, so that’s what he does.

Derek opens his mouth, and he feels the change in Kate, the way that she melts into him, smiles a little, celebrating an early victory.

But Derek bites down on her lip, he bites down hard, until he breaks through the skin and she’s scrambling backwards with a yell, crashing into the coffee table before she stands upright.

Kate aims the gun right at Derek’s face, but he knows that she won’t pull the trigger, he knows that she _needs_ him as much as he thought he needed her way back when they were stuck in the same constant cycle of violence and apathetic love.

The thing is, that Derek sees it coming. He does. Kate wipes a hand over her mouth, blood staining her skin, and Derek knows exactly what’s going to happen. This scenario is so familiar to him that he doesn’t even have the chance to flinch.

Before he knows it, the back of Kate hand is stinging across his cheek, the class ring on her finger scraping across his skin and leaving a nasty gash on his face, then she’s lifting her hand and crashing the butt of the gun hard into his temple, once, twice.

Distantly, he can hear Stiles crying his name; he can hear the heavy thuds on the ground as Stiles rushes towards him but Derek is still reeling from the hits.

The pain of it cuts sharply through his adrenaline, his temple is bleeding, and he feels sick to his toes, his vision blurred and out of sync.

So Derek doesn’t see the fight between Kate and Stiles, nor does he see the two hits it takes from Kate to finally have Stiles tumbling to the ground, one solid punch to his cheekbones and another to his jaw, Kate packs quite a right-hook, Derek knows.

Derek feels hands grappling at his shoulders, but these are gentle even in their urgency. The hands belong to Stiles, he realises after a long moment, his hands pulling Derek from the couch and onto the ground, into the protective embrace of Stiles’ arms.

He has his arm around Derek as he’s shuffling them both backwards, one around Derek’s waist and the other reaching back to shuffle them back towards the door, Stiles not looking at Derek though, he has his eyes trained firmly on Kate’s approaching figure, on the knife settled in the palm of her hand.

Sure enough, when Derek looks around he sees the gun kicked over to the other side of the room, where Stiles had knocked it out of Kate’s hand during their tussle, but Kate must not have noticed it yet.

Derek blinks, tries to shake his head to dislodge the oncoming pressure seizing against his skull but it doesn’t quite work, so he tries to focus on the gust of warm air from Stiles’ mouth beside his head instead.

They’re almost at the threshold of the door when Kate catches up and it’s all instinct for Derek to throw his arms up when Kate leaps at them. Derek successfully holds her off even if it’s only for a little bit, and he manages to shove her away to the side.

He only has enough time to dislodge himself from Stiles’ grip and push the other man aside, meaning for him to run to safety.

Stiles scrambles away and Derek has no time to feel relief because Kate is on top of him again, knife pressed up tight to his throat, he feels the sharp blade cut into him, and he has a hot dash flash of terror firing up his lungs; he doesn’t want to die, he _can’t_ die now.

But his hand is slipping from his grip on her forearms, his sight is still nauseatingly dizzy and he knows that he can’t keep this up forever.

He thinks of his son, his bright toothy grin and the way that he’s made every single facet of Derek’s life better and Derek feels a surge of temporary power, he knows he needs to do this, for his son if nothing else, so he pushes Kate with all his might and she goes flying back.

Derek half collapses on his elbows, his breathing heavy and lethargic and his eyesight glazed and shaded. He feels ill, bile furling in the acid of his stomach and he’s drained, adrenaline crashing over him.

Kate rises above him, her hair falling in a golden shower around her shoulders, her face flushed and bruised from Stiles’ fists but she looks determined; determined and _crazed_.

Her eyes are wide and wild, blood from her lip smeared over her mouth and over her knuckles, knuckles which grip the blade in her hand.

She snarls at Derek, a silent thing made more of threat than intent before her hand twitches, readying for the final blow.

Then there’s a sound, like a fast train pulling into a terminal, it’s loud and sleek and it whistles through the air before it bursts through Kate’s body with a lurid, indistinguishable _bang_.

The bullet doesn’t make it through the other side of her body, but the sound is so great in the apartment, so distinct and vulgar, much too loud in the silent aftermath, that Derek has to take a second to look down on himself to make sure that _he_ wasn’t the one who was shot.

Kate takes the impact with a quiet gasp, a short raspy little thing that makes Derek pity her more than anything, and then she’s falling to the ground like an uprooted tree.

Behind her stands Stiles with the gun in his hand, blood on his face and his finger on the trigger.

He keeps his eyes on Kate for a long time, with his shoulders set and the gun steady and straight. The moment stretches on and on, the quiet seeming almost suffocating in light of everything that’s happened.

Stiles eventually meets Derek’s eyes, a moment of disbelief passes between them and then Stiles takes a deep cleansing breath, stumbling back half a step under the intensity of it.

He takes apart the gun with shaky hands, his breathing coming in faster than it ought to, and he flings each individual part as far away from each other as he can, then he’s charging towards Derek, pausing only to take away the knife from Kate’s motionless form and throw that too across the room.

Stiles heads over to Derek and wordlessly drags him over the floor, propping him up against the sofa.

Derek’s exhausted, absolutely _exhausted_ , but he sinks into the warmth of Stiles’ hand when he gently cups his cheek.

Stiles disappears then, walking with quick measured steps over the threshold and out into the corridor. It feels like too long that he’s gone and Derek’s heart begins to hasten it’s pace, worrying about the lack of Stiles.

Just as it’s about to get overwhelming, just as it’s about to tip over the edge, Stiles reappears holding his silk tie, his belt and a towel.

He checks Kate’s pulse first and then satisfied, he moves back, crouching over her figure to begin to bind her hands behind her back with his tie. He works quickly and efficiently, and Derek needs no more confirmation that Kate’s still alive, merely passed out from the pain.

Stiles staunches her wound, a circular rupture low towards the middle of her back bleeding spurting geysers of red, with the towel and the belt before he’s moving to crouch over Derek.

His fingers gently frame Derek’s face and his knees hit the ground hard.

Derek doesn’t realise that he’s crying, heaving sobs devoid of air and strength, until Stiles is curling around him, ever protective, carefully pulling Derek towards him and comforting him with the solidity of his body.

Derek wraps his arms around Stiles’ back, crushes the other man to him, thinking that if he lets go even for one second, he’ll be taken away from him.

But Stiles is crying too, shaking against Derek as he presses their foreheads together, kissing Derek with a split lip and a heart full of love.

“It’s over,” Stiles pants, stammering over his harsh gasps, hands cradling Derek’s jaw with reverence and mouth pressing small treasured kisses over Derek’s face.

They can hardly see each other through their tears, but Stiles smiles shakily anyway, “It’s okay, it's over now.”

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what do you think? I'd been wrestling over whether I should kill Kate or not but then I was like nah, she can suffer a little more!  
> Thanks for bearing with me and I'll see you guys soon! :)


	24. Life Goes On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! How are you! Oooh, it's the penultimate chapter - are you ready for this? Because I'm not!! 
> 
> This chapter was really hard to write. I had an idea for it, and then I thought it wouldn't end up working but then it DID so I added it as well as the new stuff I wrote it, so this chapter ended up being MUCH longer than I intended! But you guys don't mind right? :)  
> Warnings for: references to drug abuse, ableist language, references to domestic abuse.  
> Other than that, we're all kitch, look on the brightside: next week's chapter is ALLL the fluff! :) Happy endings, amirite?  
> I hope you enjoy!

[  
On my last night on Earth, I won't look to the sky. Just breathe in the air and blink in the light. ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mCHzicKq3W4&list=PLgnxrTrD23zQLT9ILLqmwjuXZFWlp1MSr&index=28)

-

In a lot of ways, Derek almost expected the things to be easier now, now that Kate is stirring into consciousness, with her hands bound behind her back with the silk tie that Derek had gifted Stiles only hours before, half-snarling incoherent threats and blood staining her teeth a lurid red.

When Sheriff Stilinski finally crashes through the door, gun in hand and worry splayed over his expression, Derek is half collapsed against Stiles’ chest. Stiles is sitting behind him, enfolding Derek’s body with warmth and care, one broad hand spread over Derek’s faltering heartbeat.

The head wound that Derek is sporting still bleeds sluggishly, tumbling over in thick, slow streams, and it rolls Derek’s stomach each time that Stiles reaches over to clean it away.

“Stiles?!  _Where_ -?” the Sheriff yells, desperation roughening his voice, “ _Stiles_?”

Stiles jumps against Derek, startled by the sound of the door ricocheting off of the wall and the sound of booted feet pounding on the tiles of the corridor, but he scrambles to his feet as soon as his father turns the corner.

He throws himself at the Sheriff, who only just manages to catch him.

“I thought I lost you,” Derek hears the Sheriff sigh. “ _God_ , Stiles I thought, I thought-”

Stiles wraps his arms around the Sheriff’s neck, shuts his eyes tight and his knees buckle slightly; with his father holding him up, cradling him like that, he looks so much younger than Derek ever remembers him to be.

Seeing the worry etched on the Sheriff’s face and the way that his knuckles whiten as he crushes his shaking son to his chest, gives Derek a pang. He wants nothing more than to be wrapped around his own son, pressing his nose to Isaac’s curls, checking him over, making sure that he’s okay; that he’s there and unscathed, and unmarked and  _okay_.

Instead, he’s sitting awkwardly against the couch, feeling like an intruder in his own home, with Kate’s delusional threats gurgling in the air not two metres away from him and watching Stiles and the Sheriff hold on to each other with everything they’ve got.

It’s a weird existence to be so isolated, feeling so out of touch with his own body, in a room that is steadily filling up with more and more people. He watches them absently, gaze hopping from one person to the other, not registering faces or numbers, just the mesh of green and gold material that makes up their uniform.

He’s safe, Derek knows. The police officers all around him account to that, but he doesn’t  _feel_  safe and he doesn’t think he will until Kate is banished from his sight and he’s had a chance to make sure that Isaac is okay.

It’s right then that somebody turns on the overhead lights; Derek instantly narrows his eyes, blinking harshly at the sudden brightness and he tries to focus on the sudden sharpness of the situation. He hadn’t realised how dark the room had been, illuminated only by the table lamps and the moon shining full and bright through the window.

He fixes his gaze on Kate, who’s not glaring at him with hatred for once; she’s still issuing threats, but there’s more of a pathetic quality to her voice now: syllables slurred, others missed altogether, the whole sequence linked together by wheezing breaths heaved as she floods the towel strapped to her back with each glug of blood.

She’s arching up on the floor, directing heated glares to the policewoman standing over her.

“You filthy fucking _brat_ ,” Kate snarls, the words bubbling through her bared teeth. “Don’t touch me.”

The policewoman, on the other hand, looks utterly unaffected by Kate’s vicious words; she reaches back to grasp the silver handcuffs attached to her holster and Derek’s heartbeat falters in his chest. His mouth drops open as he watches the officer lean down to release the tie binding Kate’s wrists.

Derek pays no heed to the paramedic that crouches in front of him, gloved hands expertly checking over his temple, he dismisses the man merely as a spot of neon green on the edge of his periphery because he simply can’t look away from the police officer.

“Katherine Argent,” she says, clinking the handcuffs shut on Kate’s wrists before she even has a chance to struggle. “You’re under arrest on suspicion of domestic violence, assault and battery, false imprisonment …”

Derek stops listening soon enough, unbelieving eyes trained on the officer as she recites the Miranda rights.

He  _recognises_  her, recognises the tumble of brown hair gathered up in a bun at the crown of her head, the brown eyes that glint with hardened determination and the deep dimples that mark each cheek.

Allison Argent.

Despite Beacon Hill being relatively small, Derek hasn’t really crossed paths with the Argents. Apart from minor outings across town, that is, and the one time Victoria Argent approached Derek and stiltedly invited him for dinner – he’d politely declined, and she’d nodded, face softened in disappointment for a brief second before it hardened once again into her brisk disposition and she’d said her goodbyes.

Allison catches Derek’s eye as she drags Kate up to a standing position. Kate struggles, doggedly trying to rip herself from Allison’s grip, but Allison is much stronger than her small stature implies, besides which Kate is weakened by the gunshot, she’s wheezing more breaths than words now, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t try.

Allison blows the wisps of hair that have fallen out of her bun from her face and smiles hesitantly at him, it falters and falls off her lips as she hands off Kate to another officer.

She approaches Derek with caution in her gaze, slowly crouching by him. “You doing okay there, Derek?”

He nods his head, winces as it jostles the sensitivity in his brain.

“Yeah,” he says eventually, voice rough and trickling thick like molasses in his throat. He blinks hard against the dryness behind his lids, knowing that his eyes are red and puffy. “Yeah, I’ll be-. I think … I’ll be okay.”

She nods once decisively, smiles at him once again; completely ignoring the slurred insults that Kate throws at her as she’s unceremoniously dragged out of the room. Allison shifts forward, leans to place her hand on Derek’s shoulder but hesitates just before contact is made.

Derek hopes that she’s not going to ask permission to touch him or say something arbitrary like  _I’m going to touch you now okay?_ – He doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want to feel like he’s delicate or treated like he’s made from spun glass, he’s had too much of that lately.

But to his surprise, Allison does neither of those things. She takes her hand away from Derek’s shoulder, only to adjust the gun in her holster and the baton fitted neatly beside it, so as they don’t dig into Derek when she tentatively hugs him.

It’s brief and awkward in the way that first hugs with people always are, but it comforts Derek nonetheless. She pulls back with her cheeks blushing red and her lips pressing together in a bashful, involuntary smile, and Derek finds himself smiling weakly back at her.

Allison fits herself to his side, wrapping his arm around her shoulder as she attempts to lift him up to his feet. Derek tries hard to help, but he’s pretty much boneless, a dead weight against Allison as the adrenaline crash takes hold and the shock begins to wash over him in long, tepid waves.

He plants his free hand on the floor and tries to lift up, his feet slipping uselessly on the floor as he and Allison strain upwards, in the end they only make it a few centimetres up before they’re crashing back to the ground.

Before Derek even has a chance to feel sorry for himself, another body is insinuating itself on his other side. Sheriff Stilinski places a firm grip on Derek’s side and wraps Derek’s arm around his shoulder.

His face is heavily lined, but there’s determination in his expression; beads of sweat are gathering amongst the short strands of his hair at his temple and he grits his teeth.

“On the count of three,” the Sheriff says, and Allison nods on Derek’s other side. “One, two –”

-

The hospital is loud.

It’s full of incessant beeps and medical jargon, irregular noises of carts on the tiles and mechanical clicks of computers, blank faced stares and tears of mournful rage, people who sit, people who stand, people who collapse in despair, children and adults, babies and the elderly; doctors, nurses, family and friends, policemen, homeless drunks and faceless strangers. Just  _people_.

So many people in one small space, the sight of them all rushing about in the temperature controlled, stale air of cleanliness. Derek hates it. He hates the smell, he hates the noise, and he hates the whole process of it, which is a lot to say for someone who has never been particularly bothered by the medical atmosphere.

He’d forgotten how crowded Beacon Hills could feel like, how claustrophobic it was and how  _stuck_  it made him feel. It was the whole reason he’d decided to move away in the first place – craving the anonymity and the carelessness of the city.

He feels like a butterfly trapped behind a looking glass, with the townspeople forgetting their own problems whilst they gawk and stare at the bruises colouring Derek’s skin.

Stiles stands at Derek’s side as they walk down the corridor, glaring at anyone who so much as glances their way, with a trembling hand situated on Derek’s lower back.

It doesn’t really matter to Derek, what kind of image they project, with their bruised and battered bodies and the matching scowls marring their faces, flanked by police officers as they are. He knows that he’ll be the news of the town by the time that the sun goes up.

That he, Derek Hale, was at the mercy of the vicious Kate Argent. He can just see it now, the whispers and the glances that will no doubt become a part of both his and Stiles’ lives now, no matter the amount of scandal control his mother employs.

Time just sort of rushes into itself, between the time that he walks into the hospital and the time where he’s perched on the hospital bed of his private room, turning his head this way and that to allow the orderly to place the necessary medicaments and gauze on the numerous cuts and bruises littering his body.

He’s a lot more hurt than he remembers being; there’s the obvious damage to his temple:  _‘Extensively cracked skull,’_  he hears one doctor murmur to another,  _‘possible concussion’_ ; as well as the discoloration along his ribs from Stiles’ knees when he tackled Kate off of Derek, among many other things.

He’s been sitting there for goodness knows how long, picking at the skin of his hands when the door to his room cracks open.

It reveals Stiles, his dress shirt wrinkled and sprayed with intermittent droplets of blood; the skin beneath his eye is red and shiny and considerably swollen, he’s sporting gashes and cuts across his face and a very small, very scared four year old on his hip.

Isaac takes one look at Derek, before he’s gulping back tears and wiggling his way out of Stiles’ grip and onto the floor. He’s running towards Derek as soon as his feet touch the ground, unmindful of his unlaced sneakers as he rushes towards his father.

Isaac is not a gentle child by any means, Derek’s known this for years now; his son’s pointy elbows, hard knees and burrowing fingers all accompany the curls that tumble and bounce as Isaac rushes into whichever his chosen mischief happens to be that day.

He climbs Derek in the same way, with knobbly knees and scrabbling fingers, shoving his hair into Derek’s nose as he buries his face in his father’s neck and messily wraps his arms around Derek’s shoulders.

Derek leans forward automatically, manoeuvring himself so as to slip an arm beneath Isaac’s butt and another around his back, and he breathes a huge sigh of relief, closing his eyes and pressing Isaac to his chest, smiling even though Isaac accidently digs into the tender spots on Derek’s skin, making him hiss and gasp and huff a little in shock.

Derek can feel the small moue of wretchedness that Isaac’s mouth forms against his neck, and it makes him bury his face into Isaac’s hair, hugging him tight and close.

“I’m okay,” Derek hushes him gently, voice low and soothing as he rubs Isaac’s back. “It’s okay now, ‘Zac. You see? I’m  _right_   _here_ , Daddy’s alright.”

Isaac pulls back, eyes red-rimmed and brimming with bulbous droplets of unshed tears. His cheeks are red and his mouth is scrunched up tight as he kneels on Derek’s lap, small fingers pressing incessantly at the bandage covering the large gash on Derek’s throat, like Isaac is trying to heal his father through the mere presence of his touch.

“Hey,” Derek whispers, stealing a finger beneath his son’s chin. “Hey, look at me.”

He presses a kiss to Isaac’s forehead when he looks up, fingers fluttering over Isaac’ hair, his shoulders, his cheeks; Derek can’t stop touching him, feeling that his son’s all right now, that he’s okay.

“Don’t be sad,” Derek tells him quietly, even as his own voice thickens and cracks. 

Stiles moves forward then, stepping from behind the shadows to sit beside him on the bed, and he places a hand in the mattress behind Derek’s back.

Derek reflexively moves into his orbit, seeking comfort from the other man despite not taking his eyes off of Isaac.

Isaac’s expression morphs into renewed panic once he sees the array of bruises littering Stiles’ face; they look harsher beneath the sterile light of the hospital room: a fiery clash of reds and purples and blues, with the very beginnings of shadow darkening around the edges that layer and topple over Stiles’ pale, flaxen complexion like mottled cream.

Isaac’s hand shoots out, hovering over Stiles’ bruises like he wants to touch, to help fade away the sores from Stiles’ skin with the pads of his fingers, a wet sob bubbles in the back of his throat as he tips forward, hand wrenching in Stiles’ dress shirt.

Derek’s heart falters at that small, quiet sound and Isaac does his damnedest to wrap his arms around both his and Stiles’ necks, holding on to them like a lifeline. He sees the reflection of his utter anguish tear across Stiles’ face, Stiles' expression crumples and he bites his lip as he reaches forward and curves around Isaac's back, fingers carding through his brown curls.

Isaac goes willingly, his small body slumping against Derek, fingers tight and pale against Stiles’ shirt; and Stiles treats Isaac so delicately, cradling his heated cheek with a broad, comforting hand as he shushes Isaac with small, clucking utterances murmured at the back of his throat.

They sit like that for a long time; it could be hours for all Derek knows, with Stiles’ head on his shoulder and his son’s on his chest. Derek wraps his arms around both of them, kisses each of their heads in turn and he feels like he can finally breathe.

-

The whole situation becomes media frenzy, with storms of reporters flocking to their small town to peck desperately at the tiny morsels of information about the legal battle that they’re afforded.

 _Financial Tycoon_ , one headline screams,  _Attacked by the mother of his child._

It’s tedious Derek thinks, all of it; a complete and utter fraud of misrepresentations and half-heard words, vicious reporters with high ambitions and deadlines looming ever closer.

Derek hasn’t said a word to them, of course he hasn’t. He knows the enormity of the scandal that his life has become, he didn’t expect anything less: the very successful son of one of the most prominent lawyers in the country attacked by the daughter of a well to-do arms dealer is surely entertainment fodder.

Add in the fact that the victims’ boyfriend, (and the fact that he has a boyfriend!) is the son of the Sheriff in charge and you have a socio-political scandal all wrapped up and ready to go, Derek thinks bitterly.

Kate, whilst incarcerated and contained, is clearly enjoying this. Derek barely turns on the television now for fear of being assaulted with her face and her detritus words being splayed out like meaningless trivialities.

The trial begins almost immediately after Kate’s caught, with the Sheriff and Talia working hard to make sure that the legal proceedings begin as soon as possible.

Derek’s barely been out of the hospital for a week when Kate is brought to the Beacon Hills Court House for arraignment. She pleads ‘not guilty’, not that Derek was expecting anything less.

It’s a circus outside of his apartment after that, herds of photographers camped out until late on the front lawn, and Derek is so damn fed up of it all. Tired of the constant noise bubbling just outside, the reporters hounding everyone that deems to visit Derek, the way that Isaac flinches at every flash of camera from beyond the closed curtains, of the way it creates a visible strain between Derek and Stiles.

It’s not that Stiles becomes more withdrawn, because he doesn’t. He’s that same vivacious smart-mouth, with too-quick curses on his lips and sarcasm stinging on his tongue. He’s all of that and a hell of a lot more.

His twitchiness becomes more pronounced, and Derek knows that it isn’t just because of boredom or annoyance, he sees it in the way that Stiles will cut his thumb on the sharp edge of a knife because he stubbornly works through the minute vibrations in his hand, or the way that his knee bounces uncontrollably if he sits in a certain way.

Derek doesn’t even notice it until the night Isaac has his first night terror since Kate’s arrest. Derek’s beside Isaac’s bed looking down aghast and terrified as his son’s body twists and convulses, his mouth open in an almost breathless scream, because he thought that it was getting better, he thought that Isaac was getting  _better_.

It’s still a sore spot between Stiles and Derek, the fact that Derek never wants Stiles around on nights like this. Derek knows that Stiles wants to help, he  _knows_  that but that still doesn’t make it any easier to let his son be seen like this: so exposed and defenceless.

So Derek had told Stiles to stay back as he thundered down the hall to Isaac’s room, he’d curled up around his son and pressed his forehead to his chest and prayed that it would all be over soon enough.

It’s when Isaac wakes up, whimpering and distressed, that Stiles moves from the shadows – it makes Derek jump, as does every crevice and corner lately – but Stiles merely crouches down beside the two of them.

He must have been there the entire time Derek realises, mouth falling open with a jolt, he must have heard everything; heard Derek’s pleading whispers for his son to just ‘ _stop crying, please baby, just stop’_ , and the way that:  _‘I don’t know what to do Isaac, I just-. I don’t know how to help’_ had cracked and burned in his throat.

And Derek, Derek’s so in shock, so stunned by this realisation that he lets Stiles reach forward and bundle Isaac to his chest. Stiles shushes Isaac with gentle words; the rough pads of his fingers brushing so carefully over Isaac’s heated cheeks, brushing away his tears with nothing more than his fingertips and a careful smile.

Derek feels shameful; he feels raw and unhinged, his skin bared wide open as the humiliation sinks deep into his bones and wraps, heavy and constricting, around his lungs.

It squeezes and  _squeezes_  until Derek feels like he can’t breathe any longer, but then Stiles is moving between his legs, settling back against his chest with Isaac embraced in his arms.

Stiles leans back further, pressing a small kiss to the corner of Derek’s downturned lips.

“Okay?” He asks, concerned eyes concentrating on Derek even as his thumb continuously brushes the back of Isaac’s hand.

Derek nods, quick and stiff, and when Stiles strains up to kiss him, his mouth warm and reassuring against Derek’s, Derek notices. He notices the tremor that runs over Stiles’ body like a continuous wave.

It’s not that Stiles is cold, nor is it because he’s particularly tired, for the most part, Stiles doesn’t even seem to be aware of the way that his body shakes, like the blood in his veins trips over itself as it flows, making him shiver and spasm, and that’s exactly what worries him.

Now that Derek has noticed it, however, it’s like he can’t ignore it. He sees it when Stiles runs Isaac’s bath, when he rubs the towel over Isaac’s fluffy hair, rubs soothing cream over the scratches on his cheek, dresses him in a pair of clean pyjamas.

Derek sits through this silently, with Isaac sitting on his knee as he thinks it over. Though he doesn’t miss the wary, concerned looks that Stiles throws him whenever he thinks Derek isn’t paying attention.

Stiles tucks Isaac into Derek’s bed, kneeling on the floor and stretching all the way into the middle to bop Isaac on the nose with two fingers.

“Okay, little man,” he says with a wobbly smile. “You’re going to get yourself some sleep, alright?”

Isaac’s hand darts out to wrap around Stiles’ wrist, “You’re not staying?”

Derek can’t see Isaac’s face, curled against his back as he is, but he imagines the small frown on his son’s face and the way that his mouth pulls down in disappointment.

“I …” Stiles says hesitantly, gaze flickering up quickly to Derek before settling back on Isaac’s face. Stiles has never slept in Derek’s bed whilst Isaac was there, and Isaac has never so much as offered, to say that they were wrong-footed at Isaac’s request would be an understatement.

“Stay,” Derek says. He doesn’t know what this new chasm between he and Stiles means, or what it even entails, but if Isaac wants him around, Derek is not going to be the one who gets in the way.

Stiles crawls in after a brief nod, but the movement is hesitant, which is odd. It’s stupid really, Stiles been here a thousand times - lost among the sheets, smile bright and sleepy - and will probably be another thousand times more, but there’s this tentativeness, this new line drawn between him and Derek that hadn’t been there before.

Isaac curls up against Derek’s chest, fisting a hand in Stiles’ shirt to pull him closer. Isaac sighs in contentment only when he’s cocooned between both his father and Stiles, with Derek and Stiles so close that their knees touch and their elbows bump into each other.

Derek knows that Stiles feels his heavy gaze on him, knows it in the way that he squirms, the movement almost lost amongst his body’s constant vibrations, and the way that his cheeks slowly flush red.

But Stiles doesn’t acknowledge him, not even when Isaac falls back asleep, not even when Derek’s arms reach further to wrap around both him and Isaac. He just keeps up carding his fingers through Isaac’s curls, breathing in deep and steady until he too begins to slumber.

-

Derek doesn’t really fall asleep; he passes the time by the steady thrum of the clock and the cool Californian night air that settles in around them.

He watches them both, with his frizzy haired son in purple pyjamas and his love, on the other side of him, juddering within his skin even in sleep.

There’s no rhyme or rhythm to it, just an irregular tic that seems to control Stiles’ entire being, his mouth is pressed tight against the pained whimpers scratching at his throat, brows drawn together, the beads of sweat gathering at his feverish temples.

Derek watches him and he knows, he  _knows_  that Stiles is crashing, like a slow-burning train wreck just dying to happen.

He expects to feel angry; to feel outrage and betrayal because Stiles hadn’t told him, even though  _must_  know what’s happening. But all Derek feels is an overwhelming sadness - the last couple of days have been extraordinarily hard.

With glass-lensed reporters lurking and the shadows of Kate’s attack settling over the apartment and unnecessary coddling from their families, it’s been  _hard_.

It shames him to say it, makes him feel selfish and uncaring, but Derek’s had enough. He has, and it’s probably an accumulation of all these months clogging together, Kate's words and her actions straining in his ear but Derek’s exhausted of it all. So when Stiles jolts particularly hard, hard enough to partially dislodge Derek’s arm from his waist, Derek surges up from the bed.

He’s looking for his shoes on the floor when Stiles wakes up.

“Derek?” he asks, voice slow and dull with sleep. “What are you doing?”

Derek doesn’t answer him, he sits on the edge of the bed, with his back towards Stiles and he shoves his feet into his sneakers, haphazardly tying the laces beneath his sleep pants.

“Where are you going?” Stiles tries again, and Derek still doesn’t answer, scrambling upright the minute he feels Stiles hand touch his shoulder.

He’s halfway down the hall when Stiles’ hand curls around his bicep and turns him around.

His hair is in disarray, anger lines his mouth and his fingers twitch periodically against Derek’s skin, “You can’t just  _leave_.”

Derek tips his chin up, defiant even in this, “Watch me.”

He rips himself from Stiles’ hold and turns to head towards the door, but Stiles grabs hold of him again.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks, teeth gritting in annoyance when Derek pointedly gazes at the wall behind Stiles. “Derek? _Look_ at me.”

Eventually he swivels his eyes to look at him, Derek knows he’s being petulant but he can’t help it. “I need space.”

“Space?” Stiles repeats, eyebrows raising in disbelief. “You’re doing this because you need  _space_?”

“Yes, Stiles,” Derek seethes and he stalks forward, budging into Stiles’ space, although if he thought that Stiles would cower back down, he was very sorely mistaken. “That’s exactly what I need.”

“Right now?” Stiles asks, incredulity masking his voice. “Right this _second?_ It’s one in the morning, Derek.”

“And I need to get  _away_ , _Stiles_ ,” Derek exclaims in frustration, giving up all semblance of being quiet.

Stiles flinches, hand falling from Derek and his mouth dropping open as he stares at him.

“From me,” he says, eventually. He takes a step back, touches the tip of his tongue to his Cupid’s bow and laughs ruefully, watching Derek with flushed cheeks and wet eyes. “God, that’s what-, that’s what you want right? To get away from me.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“That’s  _exactly_  what you meant,” Stiles snaps. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying,” Derek bites out, body tensing.

“I mean, it shouldn’t really matter if you do, right?” Stiles continues, bulldozing straight over Derek’s words. “It’s not like you haven’t  _all_  been lying to me, for  _months_  now.”

Derek’s forehead crinkles in confusion, he looks at Stiles stood in the middle of his corridor, pyjama pants falling carelessly over the bones of his bare feet, spine straight and shoulders proud and he realises that he  _knows_.

Stiles sees the realisation dawning on Derek’s face and he smirks bitterly, “Yeah, that’s what I thought. I tell my dad I have a boyfriend and he tells me I’m a drug addict.”

Stiles grits his teeth, swallowing down the lump in his throat before he goes on.

“The day after, no less, your psychotic ex-girlfriend held a gun to our heads,” Stiles steps forward even as Derek remains speechless. “Do you know how much that hurt Derek? My dad knowing how much of a fuck-up I am?”

“You’re not-”

“Oh  _please_ ,” Stiles spits. “I’ve always been a fuck-up.”

“We’re working on it,” Derek argues, gritting his teeth, hands curling into tight fists at his side. “I’m not going to let you-, you're not going to get back to-.”

Derek stops, sighs gruffly in frustration and glares at the floor if only to avoid the look on Stiles’ face.

“You can’t even say it, can you?” Stiles mutters, voice tight and distant and it rings clear and sharp in the distance between them. “You thought I’d be cured now, huh? Fuck me a couple dozen times, tell me you love me and fix me up like how you want, right?”

“No,” Derek counters, and he feels sick at the resigned look on Stiles’ face, so he shakes his head hard. “ _No_ , Stiles, never that.”

“Then  _tell me_ ,” Stiles exclaims, desperation cracking his voice. “Tell me what you want!”

Derek presses his lips together, turns away from the tears gathered in Stiles’ eyes; quietly, he says, “I need some space.”

-

Derek doesn’t even mean to stay out that late, but the the fresh air fills his lungs to the point until he’s almost oblivious to the way he wanders around Beacon Hills.

It’s been around an hour and a half since he’d grabbed his coat from the stand beside the door and slipped out into the hall, bypassing the elevator to hear his sneakers squeak against the stairs as he walked further and further away from Stiles’ static state back at the apartment.

It’s been an hour and half and he’s standing at the edge of the preserve, listening to the wind card through the undergrowth and the leaves of the trees that spear into the night sky brush against each other.

It’s calming and sobering in a way that nature always is; so Derek says until his cheeks redden against the weather, his fingers turn to ice inside his coat and the breeze becomes a little too sharp and strong in his nostrils.

When he comes back it’s still quiet, he stayed out long enough that the moon shifted and the sky lightened by almost imperceptible degrees.

He heads to Isaac’s room, thinking that he can sleep there for the night, but finds his son in a freshly remade bed.

They must have woken Isaac up earlier he thinks, pressing an apologising kiss to his temple. The room smells like vanilla air freshener and peppermint tea, and Derek has no doubts that Stiles turned over the mattress before settling Isaac in, reading to him from the storybook left opened and bookmarked on the side table.

Stiles is in Derek’s room, sitting up against the headboard with the sheets around his waist and hands gripping at each other in his lap. He looks up when Derek enters but his expression is carefully guarded.

They don’t say a word to each other, which is just as well because Derek has no use for words.

He’s wary of Derek’s approaching figure but as soon as Derek’s lips touch his, he immediately softens in relief.

His shaking hands come up to brace Derek’s face, and he slips his tongue inside Derek’s mouth, turning his head a little to fit better against him, making indistinct noises of pleasure against Derek’s mouth that rush into each other the longer they kiss.

Derek lays Stiles to his bed, crawling over him to press his weight against the other man, exchanging lazy kisses and moving only to remove their clothing.

The coolness of Derek’s skin against his own, makes Stiles shiver and sigh. He feels amazing beneath him; all sleep warm and supple, body undulating in slow waves as Derek kisses his way down his chest.

He pauses only to nuzzle at the trail of hair on Stiles’ belly, looking up to meet his heavy lidded eyes. He catches Stiles’ wrists and holds them down just beneath his navel, watching as Stiles licks his lips in anticipation: with rose pink lips and a red flush settling in the crevices of his collarbones.

Stiles gasps at the first lick Derek administers, all the way from the bottom – his face nestled against the dark, coarse curls – to the thick tip and it’s like the breath is punched out Stiles when Derek sinks his mouth down on him.

Stiles lets out a long gasp, eyes rolling back in his head, sinking back into the pillow, neck curving long and pale in the dim light.

Derek tightens his hold on Stiles’ wrists, using them as leverage to still the hips that roll helplessly towards Derek’s mouth.

Stiles mewls and sighs and keens above him, skin vibrating and mouth working to catch up with the half discarded vowels and syllables that are wrenched from his throat.

Derek flickers his gaze up the length of his body as he sucks on his cock, tongue tracing the underside with broad strokes as he watches Stiles’ stomach contract and his eyes flutter.

Stiles is completely wrecked, in between overawed gulps and drawn out moans, he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, curls his hands into tight fists, grunting as his dark eyes trace the movement of Derek’s mouth on him.

He’s thick and wet in Derek’s mouth, and the taste and smell of him, as Derek pulls off to nuzzle at the heavy weight of his balls, is nothing short of intoxicating. He can tell that Stiles wants more though, so when he puts his mouth back to Stiles’ dick he loosens his grip on Stiles’ wrists and moves his hands to the back of his head.

Stiles huffs out an incredulous breath, licks his lips, “You sure?”

Derek hums in affirmation, pushing down further onto Stiles. Stiles’ only response is a heady breath and his fingers tightening in Derek’s hair.

They start off slow, with Stiles keeping the same lazy pace from before, filling Derek’s mouth on every upstroke, further and further until the tip reaches the back of Derek’s throat and his balls slap gently against Derek’s chin.

Derek steels himself on a forearm before he flickers his gaze up, catching Stiles’ eye as he purposefully relaxes his jaw and reaches down with his other hand, grasping at his own erection in long, deliberate strokes.

Stiles moans at the sight, the sound much too loud for the hour, but he throws his head back, mouth open and gaping as he speeds up his pace, hips snapping up to Derek’s mouth.

He loses his rhythm quickly after that, the room filling up with the noises of Stiles’ breathless grunts and moans and helpless sighs, the sound of his cock pumping in and out of Derek’s mouth in sloppy, wet movements, hitting the back of Derek’s throat in a way that makes Derek squeeze the base of his own dick.

Stiles comes with Derek’s name on his lips and his fingers digging into his hair. His eyes blinking wide and slow as his chest heaves with stuttered, panting breaths. Derek follows not a minute later, hand working furiously over his release as he swallows Stiles down, pulling off with slobbering kisses to the side of Stiles’ shaft.

He’s taken somewhat out of his afterglow, when Stiles’ fingers tighten unexpectedly and painfully in his hair. Derek winces, hissing in discomfort as he uses come-sticky fingers in order to pry Stiles’ hand from his head.

His gaze shoots up at Stiles, because it felt like he was trying to rip Derek’s hair from its root, but the sight that greets him is not one he expects.

Stiles’ eyes are wet and wide, tear tracks glistening against his cheeks, his mouth is open and trembling apologies at Derek, his hands unwillingly clenching and unclenching against air.

“It’s okay,” Derek says quietly, kissing his way up Stiles’ body, feeling the vibrations beneath his skin harden into tremors. He kisses Stiles firmly beneath his jaw, lying over him as Stiles’ arms laboriously wrap around Derek’s waist. “It’s okay.”

Laid like this, Derek can feel every inch of Stiles’ body and he can feel the way that he shakes. His body contracts against itself, skin tightening his body into a protective hunch like Stiles is dry heaving, or being electrocuted.

He buries his in Derek’s neck, muffling the pained wheezes of breath in the warm skin he finds there, eyes shut tight against the tears that sting, inhaling difficult breaths as he rides out the convulsions as best as he can.

It takes a long time for Stiles to come down, body settling back into the vibrations. He clings to Derek for a moment more, before he pushes him away.

He settles near the edge of the bed but he doesn’t leave and that gives Derek the courage, after a second, to approach him. He’s staring at his own hands, Derek finds, the palms upturned and his fingers curled in. 

Stiles’ expression is twisted into that of anger and annoyance and disgust, though Derek has a feeling that neither of those are directed towards him. Stiles concentrates on his hands, his wet eyes glaring at them, but all they seem to do is shake uncontrollably, remaining in their static position.

It takes a little while longer but as Derek watches Stiles he finally understands, he understands that he can’t move his fingers.

Derek immediately pulls Stiles back, and he sinks sideways into Derek’s chest, head resting on Derek’s collarbone. Derek wraps the covers around them before he gets to work.

He gently takes one of Stiles’ hands, fingers working in deep into the skin from the base of his wrist into the centre of his palm, again and again to work out the cramp.

It’s not until later, when Derek reaches the first knuckle of Stiles’ finger that Stiles speaks.

“I don’t think I can keep doing this for much longer,” he says, quietly. Derek stills for only a second, then his fingers are again tracing the delicate bones of Stiles’ knuckles, still bruised from the ruckus with Kate.

Derek rumbles deep in his chest, pressing a kiss to the top of Stiles’ head, “You won’t have to.”

By the time that Derek gets to Stiles’ other hand, Stiles is asleep and the sun is rising.

-

The crash, when it happens, is swifter than Derek thinks it would be. It happens quickly and even though he knew it was due to come any day now it still takes him by surprise.

He leaves Isaac with Laura, her green eyes following his movements with concern but he hardly has any time to explain before he’s pressing a kiss to Isaac’s hair, dashing out of Laura’s house and into Jackson’s car.

The drive is fraught with silence, apprehension clouding both their expressions as Jackson speeds his way across town.

Stiles hadn’t stayed over at Derek’s the previous few nights, nor had he been seen in the past two days. Derek was sitting at the kitchen counter early this morning, relentlessly turning his phone in his hand, over and over and over again, before he realised that Jackson was ringing him.

Stiles’ apartment, when they arrive, is pandemonium. There are books everywhere: on the floor, over the couch, knocked over the tables, loose papers flittered reckessl over furniture and the curtains haven’t even been opened so the entire places pervades with the stuffy smell of warm air.

Derek hears Stiles before he sees him, and he’s rushing towards his voice before he even knows what’s happening.

He rushes past the bathroom, finding the same mess of overturned things and spilled products littering the floor, and heads straight to Stiles’ bedroom at the end of the hall.

Derek, with Jackson hot on his heels, finds Scott and Stiles on the floor. Stiles is leaning back against the bed and Scott is holding on to Stiles’ forearms, crushing them against Stiles’ chest in an attempt to immobilise him – to stop him from lunging at him or escaping, Derek doesn’t know.

He stops dead at the threshold, eyes flickering from Stiles to the room. The bed is unmade, the mattress half deposited on the floor, the mirror by the wayside is broken, the bottom of the windowsill is ripped off to reveal a secret compartment, all of the drawers on the chest against the wall have been taken out and upturned, the shades on the windows is half-torn, letting in the light in disjointed, thick beams.

Jackson pushes past him, quietly advancing to Stiles’ other side, sinking to his knees before he exchanges a quick look with Scott.

It’s chaos, and Derek would think that Stiles had been burgled if not for the way he growls at Scott.

“Give it to me,” he snarls, but Scott barely even moves, only adjusts his stance when Stiles attempts to dislodge him. “I  _know_  you have it, Scott, because I had it here. I know I did, so give it back. Give it back to me.”

“No,” Scott says gently, fingers pressing reassuringly against Stiles, but Derek can hear the strain in his voice. “No, Stiles, we got rid of it all remember? You and me, buddy. We-, we dumped it to make you better, remember? We got rid of it.”

Stiles looks at Scott, eyes bright and startling against the blue rings beneath his eyes, “Not all of it.”

Stiles smirks weakly at the look of surprise on Scott’s face, like he’s almost pleased to have been able to hide this from him. His gaze wanders up to Derek, still frozen in the passageway and he flinches slightly at the hurt in Derek’s expression.

His smirk falters and falls and he looks almost repentant before he turns his gaze back to Scott.

“It was here,  _where_  did you put it?” Stiles asks again, slower this time, breath stuttering over his rising panic. He stares at the look of confusion on Scott’s face, the way he shakes his head. Stiles’ eyes become wide and desperate as realisation dawns; Stiles’ voice becomes very quiet. “Scott?”

Scott shakes his head again, brown eyes hopping over Stiles face, disbelief colouring his expression, “I didn’t, I didn’t-.”

Stiles stares at the windowsill, shrewd and calculating, before he turns his head towards Jackson and he watches him.

Jackson tries to school his expression into one of stern control, but all he ends up doing is looking like a lost schoolboy.

Stiles’ face hardens into anger as Jackson tries to placate him, one hand diffidently reaching for him, “Stiles-.”

“You  _son of a bitch_ ,” Stiles screams at him; face flushing red in rage at Jackson. The veins that run down his throat and weave amongst the hair over the backs of his hand and up his arms seem all the more prominent in his wrath. “You had no right, fuck you,  _you had no right!”_

He heaves upwards, as if lunging towards Jackson, but instead of Jackson flinching backwards, he puts himself _right_ in Stiles’ space. He helps Scott hold Stiles back, sitting on his thrashing legs whilst Scott attempts to comfort Stiles with nonsense words.

Derek slides down to the floor, he doesn’t know how to help, or even if he should. Scott and Jackson are handling it all with a ruthless efficiency, a burden much too great for their shoulders, but they do it nevertheless. Derek doesn’t want to make things worse so he sits there and watches as Stiles screams in Scott’s shoulder, alternating between begging sobs –  _‘Please, Scott, just one. Just one and I promise I won’t take more. I promise, I just want to stop thinking for a little bit, please, it’s just for a little bit’_  – and scathing threats and _I hate you's_  spilling from his mouth; thrashing against Scott’s arms until he goes limp with exertion, crying softly into his best friend’s shirt.

Derek doesn’t even realise that Sheriff has come in until he’s stepping over his feet in order to get to his son. Scott and Jackson move away as a unit, making space for the Sheriff to crouch down in front of Stiles.

He regards his father with large wet eyes, exhausted hiccoughs of breath rattling through his chest as John cradles his face in his hands.

Still in his uniform, John leans in close before he starts to speak, Derek can hear nothing but soft murmurs, but Stiles nods at whatever his father is saying, mouth open and trembling as he struggles to breathe.

Derek watches the four of them huddled close together and he feels somewhat out of place, not because he believes he doesn’t belong with them, but merely because he doesn’t have much experience with this side of Stiles as the rest of them do.

So when Scott’s head thumps against the back wall, and Jackson sprawls on his back, letting out a huge breath, and Stiles wraps shaking hand around his father’s wrists, Derek slips out of the apartment.

-

It comes as no surprise when three days after, a tentative knock reverberates throughout the entire apartment. Derek instinctively knows it’s Stiles: Erica and Laura would just let themselves in, Lydia would knock continuously until Derek opened the door, Anthony and Boyd would probably just begin the conversation through the door and Derek saw his parents earlier that day, so there’s no-one else it could be.

He leaves Isaac and Wolf, finally back from his long stay with Erica and Boyd, in the living room and shuts the door behind him before heading off towards the door.

Derek gets a strange sense of Déjà vu when he opens the door to Stiles, like an echo of the first time he came to the apartment all those months ago. He walks silently past Derek and heads towards the kitchen to lean against the counter.

He doesn’t look up even when Derek settles in front of him, his long fingers tracing continuously over the crisp white envelope in his hands.

Stiles takes a deep breath, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Derek replies after a beat, because what else can he say?

He touches a finger to Stiles’ cheek but all that Stiles does is thrust the envelope at him, teeth sinking into his lip and eyes carefully averted.

Derek doesn’t need to see the letter to know what it is, but he takes it anyway. The paper is heavy and expensive, with Stiles’ complicated first name printed neatly next to his surname above his father’s address.

Stiles licks his lips.

“It’s in New York,” he says. “Specialty treatment centre.”

Derek would be lying if he said he didn’t see this coming, so instead he asks, “When are you leaving?”

“Four days from now,” Stiles says, and as he chews on the side of his finger, Derek can still catalogue the tell-tale signs of tremors.

“How long for?”

“Six months,” Stiles says, and Derek’s stomach sinks. “Maybe more.”

Derek sighs, long and deep, he doesn’t have any idea how these next few months are going to go, he honestly doesn’t.

“Derek, listen, I know six months is … a-, it’s a  _hell_  of a long time,” Stiles says carefully, Derek’s heartbeat spikes at hearing the crack in Stiles’ voice. “So if you-, um, if you don’t want me anymore, then I understand okay?”

Derek lets out an incredulous breath, and Stiles’ eyes widen a little before he ducks his head, cheeks turning red in embarrassment. He nods jerkily to himself, breathes, "Okay."  

Derek’s soon realises his mistake and he grasps at Stiles’ face, making him look at him.

“No, Stiles. _Stiles_ , you have a home here,  _always_ ,” Derek says, wiping at Stiles’ cheeks with the pad of his thumbs. “Me and Isaac, we'll-, I’ll wait for you, as long as it takes.”

Stiles’ eyes dart all over Derek’s face, disbelieving hope marking his expression, tentatively he asks, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he confirms, wrapping himself around Stiles. Stiles goes easily, wrapping his arms around Derek’s back, feeling solid and real in his arms. Derek takes a deep, cleansing breath, “God, I'm so in love with you, Stiles.”

He feels Stiles’ lips press featherweight kisses on the line of his throat, in between muttering ‘ _I love you so much’_ again and again.

Derek hears Isaac across the hall, groaning in defeat as his Jenga tower falls yet again and he realises that he’ll have to get a new babysitter.

“Stiles?”

Stiles hums in question, face pressed to Derek’s shoulder.

“You’re fired.”

Stiles chokes out a laugh, and it’s wet and clogged with tears but it's much lighter than anything Derek’s heard from the man in a long while, so he smiles too and Stiles presses ever closer, tightening his arms around him. 

- 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there it is! I'm feeling pretty emotional right now, this fic is my baby and it's nearly over! 
> 
> Last chapter coming up soon, feeling in a wedding-y mood, fandom? Because you should be! Lots of love! x


	25. Unchained Melody

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness. Hey guys! So here we are, I've done it, it is done and you have just over 10k worth of fic left to read. 
> 
> I just, I might cry. I might actually cry.  
> I had an amazing time writing this, it's been a real learning curve and I do so hope you have enjoyed coming along on this ride with me :)  
> There are a few characters introduced in this chapter, but it's nothing major and it all gets explained soon enough, so don't think that I'm just randomly shoving in names, or mistaking some characters for others!  
> Other than that, well. There's nothing else to say, is there?  
> I hope you enjoy! :)

 

[Oh, my love, my darling, I've hungered for you touch, a long lonely time.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zrK5u5W8afc&list=PLgnxrTrD23zQLT9ILLqmwjuXZFWlp1MSr) 

-

Derek wakes up to strawberry scented hair and a distinctively feminine body curved into his.

At first, when he blearily opens his eyes, vision cloudy with sleep, the only thing he can see is a mess of blonde hair in his face and for one second, he thinks it’s all been a dream; that the previous few months have never happened and that he’s back in the city, stuck in his old life.

Though before Derek gets further into that devastating train of thought, the reason he was stirred in wakefulness in the first place becomes clear to him. From the guest room across the corridor comes a small, high-pitched cry, the warbling tone of a restless baby.

Isabella, Derek thinks with a relieved sigh. Right.

Beneath Derek’s arms, Erica begins to stir, pushing her body into Derek’s as she instinctively turns towards her daughter’s cries. Derek shushes her, seeing the pale blue rings of tiredness visible beneath her eyes and tells her to go back to sleep.

Erica grunts in gratitude, smacking the back of her hand to Derek’s face, in what he thinks is sleepy thanks, before she rolls on to her stomach and promptly falls back asleep.

Derek huffs a sigh before he slinks out of bed and looking out of the window, he realises that it’s not as early as he thought it was. The sun shines brightly as it stretches into noon and looking back the tangle of bed sheets behind him, Derek finds that Erica is already fully dressed, and he surmises that she must have let herself into his house earlier, put Isabella down, crawled into his bed and passed out.

Erica and Boyd carry themselves lately with the air of new parents, Derek finds, with the air of tiredness and unfathomable love and quiet desperation.

So he pads quietly across the hall, taking in the polished dark hardwood floors and the cream coloured walls, because it still makes him pause, even after three months of living in this new house, he keeps expecting to see the wide slab tiles and the neat white walls of his old apartment.

But this house is something he loves with all the ferocity of a new homeowner; it’s set just outside the centre of town, his backyard edging the park, it's made up of grey sandstone and large windows set into the façade with dark wood accents, the door is painted a dark velveteen turquoise and the front yard is neat and small, bordered by a wrought iron fence and a curving driveway that leads to a set of huge, rounded iron gates with an intricate lock and pattern design.

But the backyard, the backyard is _beautiful;_ an enormous open space, from the polished dark wood patio to the jade green grass that runs on, and on and on, until it reflects off of the whitewashed walls at the very far edge of the garden.

There’s a swing-seat beneath the stone portico, a stack of blankets messily arranged in the wicker baskets and a sapling apple tree towards the left; it’s Derek’s favourite part of the entire house. It's somewhere big enough for barbeques, and paddling pools and spaces for Isaac, Cora and Wolf to run around. Derek loves it, loves opening the French windows of the living room in the mornings, drinking coffee and feeling the early day warmth begin to saturate the earth.

That very same warmth, the golden yellow rays of promising summer, now filters in through the upstairs window of the guest room, creating soft sunbeam patterns on the floor.

The crib is on the left: a light cedar wood cot inscribed with gold-leaf on the side and fluffs of white cotton blankets stuffed through the gaps as Is kicks out while she cries.

If anything, Isabella's cries intensify as soon as Derek’s head pops over the crib; her large, wet eyes scrunching up as she pistons her chubby fists in Derek’s general direction.

Derek picks her up immediately, cooing softly as he rocks her. He’s never been able to deny her, not in the few short months that she’s been alive, not with how beautiful she is: all brown skin, dark curls, Erica’s eyes and Boyd’s smile; he never had a chance.

He pads over to the guest bed, holding Is with a practiced, gentle hand, and he sits on the corner of the bed that is less overtaken by all of Cora’s things, though he still has to push away some of her plush bears to one side.

When he’s checked that Is’ nappy doesn’t need changing, and that what she wants in fact, is for her Uncle Derek to feed her, Derek makes his way downstairs.

He makes idle chitchat with Is as he prepares her milk, gentle nonsense words that makes her smile, gummy and wide, at him and later she rests easily in the crook of Derek’s arm, suckling at the bottle with her pudgy fingers spread on the glass and her wide brown eyes on her godfather.

The house is quiet and still, even the air outside seems to be partaking in the tranquillity of the day; Derek loses track of time as he rocks Is around the kitchen, lost among the dark wood floors and the ivory counters and the walls painted in the most delicate eggshell blue, an almost perfect facsimile of the blue sky outside and the frothing white clouds that lazily roll around in it.

Derek has come to appreciate the quietness, especially now that his life is filled with rambunctious activity. With a house so full of noise, he’s now extremely appreciative of the silence that comes with early Sunday mornings.

Of course, it’s as soon as he has this thought that the ruckus commences.

Derek has Is on the highchair, picking at the banana slices he’d prepared for her with self-satisfied grunts and sighs, as he sits beside her and eats his breakfast; he’s halfway through his bowl of cereal when he hears the front door open with a deafening crash.

Isaac is a blur of activity as he comes careening into the kitchen; his curls, darkened into a more solid brown under the summer sun, tumbles over his eyes and the collar of his shirt, and Derek makes a mental note to have it cut.

He clatters straight into Derek with a huge smile and his arms around his father’s waist. He’s breathing heavily, with ruddy cheeks and leaves tangled into his curls, jittery energy beneath his skin.

“I won!” Isaac shouts, and then, just as quickly, he’s letting go of Derek’s waist and running back the way he came from, arms flailing wildly at either side.

“Cora!” Derek hears him shout breathlessly, voice bouncing off of the walls as he disappears down the corridor, small feet thundering on the ground. “ _Cora_. I beat you, I won!”

Predictably, from down the hall, comes the disembodied voice carrying Cora’s dry response: “I _let_ you win.”

They appear in Derek’s line of sight not a second later, Isaac lengthening his strides to match his cousin’s longer ones; there’s only three years between them, but between a five year old and an eight year old that difference might as well be as large as the pacific ocean.

They come into the kitchen in their matching blue _Little League_ jerseys and grey sweatpants, Isaac scrunches his mouth to the side, raising his voice to mutter an indignant “Nuh-uh!” that has Cora rolling her eyes so hard that Derek has trouble believing that she’s not truly a born Hale.

Isabella is still in the highchair, a slice of banana hovering in the air as she watches the commotion with a startled interest.

“Morning,” Derek greets, eyebrows rising in amusement even as Isaac clambers atop his lap.

Cora sits on Is’ other side, kissing her pudgy cheek before she settles back in her own chair, “It’s in the afternoon, Derek.”

“Well then,” Derek huffs in amendment. “Good _afternoon_ , Cora.”

She doesn’t reply, but Derek spies the small flicker of an indulgent smile that she tries to hide in the crook of her elbow.

Cora’s still like this, Derek knows, still apprehensive of the life the Hales have been building for her in the last couple of months. He knows she wants to settle down, to take how they mould around her in stride, to _really_ accept them as a family for her own, but he also knows that she’s half waiting for someone to knock on the door and take her back to the foster home.

Even though Derek knows that that could very well be a possibility, he’s under no doubts that they will _all_ fight tooth and nail for her.

Derek wraps an arm around Isaac and leans forward, ruffling Cora’s hair. She grumbles haughtily, not that Derek expected any less, and pushes his hand away with both of hers, lifting her head to narrow her eyes at him.

“Where’s your mom?” Derek asks, manfully ignoring her glare as he bounces Isaac on his knee.

Before Cora can even open her mouth to answer, Laura is shuffling laboriously into the kitchen, laden down with both Cora and Isaac’s sports bags.

“I’m here, I’m here,” she huffs, teetering on her stilettos as she unceremoniously dumps everything in a messy pile by the doorway. She straightens up, sighing in relief as she runs her hands over her blouse.

She looks at Derek’s raised eyebrows with an annoyed frown on her face, “What?”

“You’re wearing stilettos,” he says, looking down pointedly at her feet. “You were at the _park_.”

“I was at a business meeting,” she replies with a tip of her chin. “Very important, couldn’t be avoided.”

“A business meeting at the park?”

Laura rolls her eyes, sitting down at the table on the chair beside Cora with an incredulous huff, sarcastically remarking that, “Yes, Derek, that’s _exactly_ what I was doing: a business meeting at the park.”

She drapes an arm over the back of Cora’s chair and leans over her to reach Is.

“Hey there, pumpkin,” she smiles, stroking her soft hair. Is’ only response is a breathless giggle, little fingers stuffing banana slices into her mouth and making a sludgy, banana-y mess all over her hands and cheeks.

Laura looks at Derek, Derek looks at Laura. They both shrug, letting Isabella get on with her mess.

Erica comes down not too soon after, in a sweater and skinny jeans, hair tied up in a bun, just as Laura’s getting to the climax of her story regaling Cora’s homerun.

Cora keeps rolling her eyes, huffing breaths of supposed indifference despite the red flush to her cheeks, muttering, “It really wasn’t that great, Laura.”

“It _was_ ,” Laura insists, and Isaac nods his head in agreement, so enthusiastically that Derek would think that _he_ was the victor.

When Erica arrives her very first action when she sees Isabella is to sigh, sigh _deeply_. She plucks a paper-towel from the stand and begins to wipe her daughter’s face and hands. When Isabella is sufficiently clean, and peanut butter sandwiches have been placed in front of Cora and Isaac, Erica picks up Isabella and sits on Derek’s other side.

“I have no idea how either of you managed to raise two children,” she says, eyeing each of them in turn. Erica has gotten good at that lately, at making children and adults alike feel shameful of their actions with a single hard-edged, maternal look.

Derek has the distinct feeling that that it's something she picked up from Talia.

“Speaking of children,” Laura says, suddenly fretful as she tucks the strands of her hair behind her ears. She glances at Cora, “Guess who gets to write 'Hale' instead of 'Lahey' in her school reports from now on.”

Cora freezes, sandwich half way to her mouth, she turns to Laura and they stare at each other. Derek’s heart beats over in a thundering pace, because surely by the way that Laura is talking, then the adoption must have come through.

It’s at times like this, he thinks, that he’s truly grateful for his family’s affluence.

“Are you serious?” Cora says, and Derek feels a quiet pang at the ghosts of disbelief in her voice.

She’s been at this point before, he knows; when she genuinely thought she was getting adopted before it all fell apart; a brief conciliatory exchange of glances with Erica shows that she’s thinking the same thing.

Isaac continues on eating his sandwich, because Derek thinks his son has grown physically incapable of recognising a serious situation.

“Yeah,” Laura says, her eyes are wet but there’s a tentative smile on her face. “Yeah, I-. I pulled a few strings, got the papers today.”

She stands and heads back over to the pile of bags she’d dumped earlier, finding her briefcase hidden under Cora’s sneaker bag.

She pushes a neat stack of papers towards Cora when she sits back at the table. Cora obviously won’t be able to quite understand the legal talk that is no doubt present in the thickness of the stack, but they all watch in reverential silence as her fingers trace the red-ink stamp bearing the word: APPROVED beside her birth name.

Laura then pulls out the adoption certificate, unlaminated and fresh from the printing press, with the ink still settling on the page.

 _Cora Marjorie Hale,_ it announces, the letters broad and thick across the page. _Formally adopted as the rightful daughter of Laura Louise Hale as of this day,_ and Cora smiles.

She had come into the family about a month and a half after Stiles had left. Cora was angry and scared but she held on to Laura’s hand with fierce need.

Laura was prosecuting Cora’s biological father at the time, an old drunkard who had neglected Cora so thoroughly, after his wife's death in childbirth and his elder son’s death in war, that the poor child was on death’s door before she had even turned five.

Cora had been taken into foster care, occasionally getting selected and eventually returned due to families that were already too big to feed another mouth, or too young to understand the amount of care Cora would need, despite her misleadingly gruff personality.

Cora would still get dragged into her biological father’s messes however, with each time that he would be taken into court. This time around, Laura finally landed his ass in jail for the next eight years at the very least, for the grievous assault and battery of Matt Daehler, the son of one of _Hale and Associates’_ richest clients.

Laura was instantly enamoured with Cora, she absolutely adored her dry humour and the passivity of her face ( _You remind me of my baby brother_ , she’d told her once) and Derek remembers the way that Laura looked at Cora, like she’d hung the moon.

What really gets to Derek though, is how much Cora already looks like a Hale. Apart from her brown eyes, she is every inch one of them. She’s integrated almost seamlessly, after those rocky first few weeks. She teases Isaac mercilessly, stands next to Anthony whilst he barbecues, sits draped over Laura’s side on the couch, soaks up Mr Hale’s dry wit, of which she practices and mimics all around her new cousins, and on the nights she stays over, she slinks past Derek in the dead of night as he skypes Stiles, trundling in the background with an armful candy and a meagre grunt in response to Stiles’ various sarcastic greetings.

Even Stiles isn’t exempt from Cora’s dryness and Derek, more than anyone, is surprised over how well they mesh together. Sometimes Cora'll stop and lean over Derek’s shoulder, squinting at the grainy image of whichever shirt Stiles happens to be wearing, announcing, “That was a terrible movie,” (or any such insult) to an indignantly spluttering Stiles before she continues on her merry way upstairs.

Now though, when Isaac is engrossed in conversation with Erica, Laura is on the phone to the pizza place and Cora is on Derek’s knee, leaning heavily into his chest, her eyes red-rimmed but settled, Wolf slinks into the kitchen from his nap in the living room. He drapes his big head over Derek’s knee and huffs. He still walks funny due to the gunshot he suffered in his puppyhood, but he’s really grown into himself: with soft and golden fur and a patch of dark brown on his chest, drooping eyes and a lolling tongue, he’s absolutely adorable.

Cora begins petting Wolf’s head almost absently and Derek says, casually, “You know what this means, right? Now that you’re one of us for forever.”

Cora lifts her head, instantly suspicious as she narrows her eyes at him, “What?”

Derek smirks, “Hale Family photocards.”

Cora looks sufficiently horrified, having already seen the collection of previous photocards that Talia has in a box in her home office. Neatly separated into the different holiday seasons, the cards are Talia’s chosen way of tormenting her family: by dressing them up in the most horrendous themed costumes she can find and photographing them.

The one from Derek’s fifth year of life when he had, because of his tremendously uncoordinated childhood self, ended the day dressed like a wet, one-eyed goat in the manger, with grass stains and half a sock missing still haunts him to this very day.

Cora is the last to order, still staring at Derek with wide and terrified eyes as he laughs at her. Laura sighs, phone pressed to her ear, snapping her fingers to get Cora’s attention, “Sweetie, come _on_ , I don’t have all day.”

Laura is a great parent, but patient she remains not.

-

The ride to the airport a few days later is probably the most nerve-wracking moment that Derek has had in a long while.

Stiles has been away for over ten months now, spending extra time at the clinic due to the extensive damage to his nervous system, something that had occurred in the months and months that Stiles had refused to go visit a doctor.

Of course, Derek had been speaking to Stiles nearly everyday; brief conversations that lasted no longer than three minutes. It was more of an assurance of the other’s voice than an outlet for proper discussion in any case, saving that for the fortnightly Skype calls they had, which Stiles alternated between Derek and his family.

They’re taking the Camaro, though the Sheriff is driving at Derek’s suggestion, because the man looks like he needs something to do, he looks like he’s fit to burst from pure anticipation. Jackson and Scott, who'd flown out to New York to bring Stiles back home will be taking Jackson's porsche, Derek saw no need to have a huge assembly line of cars waiting for Stiles. 

Derek’s in the passenger seat, periodically looking back at Isaac and Freda in the back. Freda smiles sympathetically, though Derek can see the anticipatory nerves that flicker through her face, and how her blue eyes are hopeful, faint crow's feet wrinkles crinkling at the corner, mouth pressed in a tight line.

Derek’s nervous though, because he doesn’t quite know what to expect even though they have been in contact almost constantly, except for the days where Derek’s landline passed the day completely silent, a sure-fire sign that Stiles was crashing yet again, something that happened with more and more frequency with him alone and so far from home.

But now, Derek has no doubts that Stiles will be a changed man, and he doesn’t know how he’ll still feel about his relationship with Derek. Derek isn’t as concerned with his relationship with Stiles, however, as he is for _Isaac’s_ relationship with Stiles.

Isaac who has missed Stiles so much in the last few months, who must have cried for at least two weeks straight after Stiles left, blotting his nose on Derek’s shirt at bedtime when he realised, once more, that Stiles really wasn’t going to come back. He always managed to tug the landline from his father's hands in order to regale to Stiles his day in a warbled, half-incoherent jumble and he dragged Derek to the Sheriff’s office every Thursday so as they could write his weekly postcard to Stiles.

Isaac has no idea where they’re going today, the Sheriff wanted to keep it a surprise, which explains the way that he’s sitting in the back, completely oblivious to all the tension in the car, extensively telling Freda about what he had done at his elementary school the previous week.

Lydia had accompanied Derek to Isaac’s first day, partly to keep the curious parents (with the air of gosspi-mongers) loitering around Derek at bay, and partly to keep him from falling apart as his son had dragged his feet towards the classroom, hands wrapped tightly around his backpack straps and chin wobbling as he tried to keep from crying.

So Isaac has no idea that where they’re going or what for, but as soon as they pull up to the lot and stride through the glass doors, he _oohs_ and _aahs_ at it all. He's holding on to John’s hand even as he attempts to veer off, cooing over the stewards in their coordinated uniforms and the business people lugging suitcases behind them, and at the large families preparing for a family vacation, occasionally commiserating awed looks with the children his own age who are equally as entranced by the place.

They arrive an hour early in their impatience, and so they stand in a huddle at _Arrivals_ , waiting for Stiles with fast hearts and clammy palms, throats contracting at each tannoy announcement, and disappointment ringing through their ears when each announced arrival is not the one they’re waiting for.

But then, _then_ it’s here and to be honest, those twenty minutes are probably the longest of Derek’s entire life. Isaac seems to notice the sudden tension that the three adults carry with them, and he stands up (he’d petulantly sat on the ground after Derek refused to let him wander when he’d gotten bored some ten minutes earlier) and looks in the general direction of the arrivals archway.

Derek doesn’t see Stiles at first. He sees Jackson, dragging a huge suitcase behind him and a rucksack on his shoulder, then the crowd in front of him dissipates and it reveals Scott on the other side, carrying two large rucksacks on either shoulder, and between the two is ... Stiles.

He’s only carrying a backpack on his back. His hair is a little shorter, the bones of his face a little more sharply pronounced, his gait a little more hesitant as he searches the crowd, but he’s the same old Stiles.

A huge, blinding smile overtakes his face as soon as he sees them, and John is already moving towards his son, his strides long and heavy and desperate, dragging along an oblivious Isaac.

Freda grabs hold of Derek, where he’s stood frozen in place, and begins to walk him over just as John engulfs Stiles in a one-armed hug and Stiles wraps his arms around his father’s back; long, skinny fingers twisting in the material of John's fleece, eyes squeezed tightly shut as he holds on to his dad.

It’s then that Isaac realises that Stiles is back, he stares at Scott and then at Jackson, who raises his eyebrows at him and smiles.

Isaac’s eyes grow large and awed as they swing back to Stiles, and then he’s wrenching his hand out of the Sheriff’s to throw himself at Stiles’ legs, wrapping around Stiles’ knees like ivy.

When Stiles bends down to sweep Isaac into a hug, Derek notices that Stiles is half crying, tears of relief or happiness pooling just beneath his red-rimmed eyes.

Stiles hugs Isaac tightly to his chest, smoothing Isaac’s curls back as Isaac sobs, repeating Stiles’ name over and over again.

“I missed you so much, kiddo. It’s okay, you don't have to cry,” Stiles says, throwing a slightly panicked look at the Sheriff, who huffs tearfully at him, picking up Isaac and rubbing his back.

Stiles turns to Freda, wrapping his arms around her small frame and hugging her so hard that her feet are swept right off the ground. She startles a laugh but she hugs him back just as fiercely.

She’s instantly on Stiles the second he puts her down, cupping her hands to his face, over his shoulders, down his sides, back to his cheeks.

“Stiles. Oh sweetie, _sweetie_ , you’re so skinny,” she sighs, and Stiles rolls his eyes, laughing as he covers her hands with his. “What have they been feeding you?”

“I missed you,” Stiles says.

Freda tips his head forward, kisses his forehead gently.

“Only for your food though,” Stiles continues with a mischievous grin.

Freda scoffs, slapping him lightly on the shoulder, but she’s happy, really happy. 

Stiles turns to Derek and there he sees the first flickers of doubt in his eyes. They stare at each other for a long while, both equally as apprehensive of making the first move.

Stiles hunches his shoulders and sticks his hands in the back pockets of his tan khakis. Seeing him now, Derek realises what Freda meant. The clothes that Stiles is wearing, a dark royal blue shirt beneath a red and grey-sleeved hoodie, hangs a little looser off of his shoulders, his hands too large for his wrists, his eyes huge and round in his face.

It’s not that Stiles looks completely different- but that’s exactly what confounds Derek. Looking at Stiles is like looking at a room he's familiar with, but everything’s slightly two inches over from where they’re supposed to be.

There are new nuances now, things about Stiles that Derek will have to relearn, things like the contours of his face and the way that he moves beneath him. And it’s not that Derek doesn’t want to relearn these things, because he does: many times in a row and in several, _several_ different positions.  

But the issue is whether Stiles wants to, because Stiles is not the only thing that’s changed; Beacon Hills has changed, and with it, so has Derek.

It’s hard not to change when your whole entire life is flipped upside down and aired out to the public masses.

Kate’s trial is still ongoing, with Talia standing strong and unrelenting as she prosecutes and Boyd working hard and fast as her aide, but that only fuels the lingering stares that Derek continually receives.

He’s become some sort of a local celebrity, and because of the high-profile court case hanging over his shoulders, there are the occasional reporters imported from the city with the mission of hounding Derek for information.

It’s not often, and it’s less frequent now after the legal precaution that Derek undertook when he spied some creepy journalist taking pictures of him and Isaac as he picked him up from school, but Derek doesn’t know how Stiles will react to this.

Kate’s trial has another two months left of it at the very least, so Derek knows that the commotion won’t die down for a while yet. That’s not to mention the amount of work that Derek’s been saddled with lately, that’s probably the only good thing to have come out of the entire thing with Kate, that Derek’s company benefits from all of the free publicity.

So Derek doesn’t know, he doesn’t _know_ if Stiles is still up for dealing with all of this.

Derek doesn’t realise how long he and Stiles have been staring at each other until John sighs in despair, rolling his eyes and turning his back on their pathetic display of hesitance as he rubs Isaac’s back.

And he doesn’t realise the distance that was between them until he’s striding forward; all at once Derek has an armful of Stiles, and Stiles sags in relief as soon as he wraps his arms around Derek, palms restless as they move over his back.

But Stiles is here, he’s solid (despite his misleadingly skinny look) and real, his fingers scrabble at Derek’s skin a little too harshly but Derek doesn’t care, because he’s _here_.

Up this close Derek can see how tired he really is, his eyes are set deep into his face, his voice a little rough as it catches around Derek’s name and his hair is dark and soft, with random locks of hair sticking up at odd angles towards the back, like he’d slept in an odd position on the plane.

Derek kisses him full and sound on the lips, it’s warm and familiar, Stiles still tastes like Coca-Cola and strawberries and that inherent Stiles-ness that made Derek fall for him in that very first instance, and damn if it doesn’t feel like coming home.

-

Derek’s father breaks his leg a week and a half before Erica’s wedding.

He'd toppled over fallen log in the preserve; he’s fine, his leg is in a cast, there’s a smile on his face and the story is pretty funny when Derek thinks about it.

It _would_ be hilarious, if the reactions of Erica and Laura and Lydia weren’t so terrifying. They’ve had to change the wedding plan twice already, once with the introduction of Cora into their lives and again due to Erica’s younger sister finally RSVP’ing.

So now Derek is in his hotel room, tying his cummerbund in place before he even attempts to fix his bowtie. He’s been trying to do it for the past ten minutes, and it’s not that he doesn’t know how to tie cummerbunds (because he has done so two dozen times before) but because he’s restless and he’s nervous.

His father was supposed to walk Erica down the aisle, and now that responsibility has fallen down to him, and it’s making him nervous. He’s excited, yes, but he doesn’t want to mess it up.

The door opens a moment later and Stiles sneaks in, closing the door lightly before he turns and beams at Derek.

He’s already in his suit, black tie over a crisp white shirt and a shimmering deep black tuxedo, with softly curved lapels, to fit over it. He looks delectable, Derek notes, but it’s not like he can do anything about it now.

Stiles approaches him slowly, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he watches Derek. He’s been home for over two weeks now, and Derek still hasn’t had enough of him.

Stiles is back at the Sheriff’s house, though Derek has wanted to ask Stiles to move in with him since the moment he’d seen him at the airport. Stiles hates having to be so dependent on his father again and Derek, of all people, knows exactly how much he hates being coddled.

So these last two weeks have been a lesson in patience, but Stiles is here and in front of him, warm and smiling.

“Are you ready?” Stiles asks, balancing on the balls of his feet, hands clasped behind his back.

“Ready as in, am I dressed?” Derek questions. “Or am I ready for the wedding?”

Stiles doesn’t answer, instead he leans in and he reaches around to take the strings of the cummerbund from Derek’s hands, he leans in close, knuckles brushing against the small of Derek’s back as his fingers work over the knots.

When he’s finished he runs his hands over Derek’s side, resting in the dips of his waist, thumbs stroking at the black Ottoman silk of the sash.

“You’ll do great,” Stiles says quietly, tipping forward to rest his forehead on Derek’s.

“You think so?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Stiles hums, closing his eyes before he kisses Derek. It’s sweet at first, with Stiles using his hold on Derek’s waist to pull him closer, tipping his head to the side and opening his mouth to better bear the brunt of Derek’s kisses.

Derek eventually pulls back a little, turning to push Stiles against the wall of the hotel room, their eyes trained on each other before Derek dives back in.

The kiss this time is passionate, full of soft lips and biting teeth and warm hands. Derek loses track of time, loses track of himself with Stiles mouth and Stiles is the same way, going by the way that he clings to Derek.

“I missed you,” Derek mumbles between one biting kiss and another, breathless and gasping all at once. “So much, Stiles. God, I-”

“Me too,” Stiles nods, kissing Derek back just as fiercely. “But I’m here now, I’m here.”

The door swings open, and Derek and Stiles spring apart as much as they can whilst still staying relatively close together.

Cora leans in through the door, her brown hair in delicate curls and pinned to one side with a sapphire-jewel butterfly clip, she too is already in her [dress](http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_dvAISJCHIfM/S75xUT1pEAI/AAAAAAAAAA4/EPNvoHQdq6w/s320/flower-girl-dresses.jpg): pristine white with a light blue sash at the waist and a tulle tiered A-Line bottom, hanging delicately over her court shoes. The entire look is entirely too cute for the look of pure boredom on Cora’s face.

She rolls her eyes at the sight the two of them make, sighing, “Uncle Derek, my mom said that you have to go to Erica within the next five minutes, and she’ll make it hurt if you don’t stop sucking face with your boyfriend.”

Derek’s halfway through making a mental note to talk to Laura about how she addresses her eight-year-old daughter when what Cora said actually sinks in.

Stiles evidently has the same thought, because he splutters, turning his gaze from Cora to Derek and back again, even pressed up against the wall as he is.

“Did you just-?” He says, wide eyes trained on Cora, then he looks at Derek. “Did she just-?”

Cora looks a little uncertain now, looking all of eight years old, weighed down by disappointment and resignation.

"Was that not-?" she says, quietly. "Should I have not said that?" 

"No, Cora, _no_ ," Derek says gently. He moves away from Stiles, because Cora's just called Laura ‘mom’ and she shouldn’t feel doubtful over that at all. He kneels by her, taking her small hands into his larger ones, “It's perfect, kiddo. It is. Have you told her yet?”

Cora shakes her head, small smile tugging at her lips, “Not yet.”

“Good,” Derek says, nodding seriously. “Make sure you tell her in a room full of people, so that everyone can appreciate her ugly crying face.”

-

Laura does end up crying - five minutes before Erica’s supposed to be heading off to the Church on the other side of town, and it's just as hilarious as Derek thought it would be.

Erica narrows her eyes at him, fists balled up and resting on her hips, “I _know_ this was your doing, Hale.”

Derek shrugs ineffectually, turning his gaze back to where Laura is crying in her blue bridesmaid’s dress, clutching Cora to her chest and wailing, “You called me _mom_!”

Cora looks like she’s severely regretting her decision but she eventually gets pulled away by Paulette, Boyd’s older sister, so she can re-apply Laura’s makeup, with a gentle hand and a lot of fond eye-rolling.

They were going to be late anyway, with all the fuss over picture taking. Derek reclines on Erica’s bed, ignoring everyone else as he plays a game on his phone. The photographer has the girls moving this way and that, moving around the hotel room in order to get better lighting.

It’s ten minutes later that the photographer calls for the final shot, he arranges the flower-girls on the floor, seated in a semicircle, with their bouquets in their hands, Cora manages to look serene rather than austere and Isabella babbles happily in her cousin Hattie’s arms in the middle.

The six bridesmaids stand on the outer edges of each side, wearing the same three variations of the slinky, beaded turquoise [dress](http://cousinstiles.tumblr.com/image/57731626467) that Lydia had chosen.

In the middle, slightly off centre stands Erica. She looks utterly beautiful. Her [dress](https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10151605273441239&set=a.406251971238.181248.46796551238&type=3&permPage=1) is a beauty of lace and heavy silk, the lacework of the bodice flows up to her collarbones, and dips low in her back, leading to a train of sumptuous drapery.

There’s a very fine layer of tulle fitted over the dress, drafting patterns of white floral brocade embroidery on her skin that close together at the [back](https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10151606906831239&;set=a.406251971238.181248.46796551238&;type=1&;theater) with a row of pearls lining up the length of Erica’s spine, clinched at the base of her waist with a silk bow and a silver and diamond broach. Her makeup is minimal, hair curled up into a loose chignon; her look is completed with her veil pressed in with sapphire clips and a dusting of blush on her cheeks.

When Derek joins her side, he leans down to kiss her temple. “You look radiant.”

-

They get to the Church quicker than Derek anticipates, and before he knows it, the carved double doors are about to open, the orchestra is playing, the crowd is quietening and Erica’s arm is interlinked with his.

“Ready?” he asks.

Erica tips her head back, smiling beatifically, “I was born ready.”

-

The walk down the aisle is a blur of emotion and passing faces. Derek sees Boyd, looking at Erica with the most awed expression he's ever seen, Anthony stood beside him and Isaac between them in his own mini tuxedo - holding prestigious place as ring-bearer.

Talia stands on Erica’s side, standing tall and proud as a maternal figure. The bridesmaids, when they arrive at the top of the church, arrange themselves around her like doves.

Derek feels hot underneath the Church lights now that it’s only he and Erica making their long way up the aisle, the eyes of the crowd upon both of them, but Erica's grounding presence beside him and the flowers, making the place smell of roses and mint, clears his head a little bit.

He only catches flashes of people as he slowly guides Erica down, he sees their old high school acquaintances and Erica’s college friends to one side, Boyd’s family and _his_ college friends on the other, some overlapping. He sees the Sheriff and Freda standing next to Boyd’s grandparents, spies Stiles standing between Derek’s father and an empty place.

It’s a mess of people, in the most wonderful way, but about halfway down Erica’s delicately manicured nails dig sharply into Derek’s arm. He follows the trajectory of her gaze and he swears that his heart stops beating for a second, because there, seated beneath the awning far back in the shadows of the church, much more distant than anyone else in the place, are Erica’s parents.

Derek squeezes her hand tightly in reassurance, smiles at her and he keeps on walking.

-

Seeing Erica slide the ring onto Boyd’s finger later feels _right_ , like something has finally slotted into its rightful place. It’s something that has been simmering in the air for a long time, even before Derek had reached the altar, before he kissed Erica’s hand, murmured gentle words as he kissed her forehead, nodded gravely as he shook Boyd's hand.

Now though, there’s a pause of utterly quiet contemplation before the minister announces, “I now pronounce you husband and wife. _Congratulations_.”

The applause in the Church is thunderous, and Derek’s heart swells when he sees the pure, unadulterated joy in his friends’ faces.

Stiles leans against his side, laughing breathlessly at the catcalls and whistles coming from the crowd the longer Boyd and Erica’s kiss goes on.

When Derek slips his arm around Stiles’ shoulder and turns to look down the pews behind him, he sees Erica’s parents slinking quietly out of the church.

-

The reception is held in The Carter Hotel on the outskirts of town; the same one that the bridal party had vacated just a few hours before.

Talia had taken full control of decorating the reception hall, renting out two floors as well as the dining suite for a full two days to accommodate Erica’s wedding.

Derek has to admit that it looks beautiful, he’s sitting between his parents and Stiles on Erica’s side of the bridal table, and there are large circular tables strategically curved around the dance floor, each draped with heavy white cloth.

The crystal glasses clink against the silverware and the fine china as the guests tuck in, and there are glass chandeliers glimmering above their heads. The place cards are made of heavy blue parchment paper and gold lettering, with Erica and Boyd's names stamped on in red wax.

The accents of this are picked up in the royal blue and dark sumptuous reds of the orchids, placed artfully around the room, sending tones of light perfume in the air even as they reflect off of the carefully articulated lighting. There are flowers everywhere and it makes the entire room look like a garden.

Derek catches Erica’s eye and they share a smile.

He manages to make it through his best man speech without any major pitfalls, recounting tales of his and Erica’s antics in their youth whilst the bride groans in embarrassment, Anthony does the same for Boyd, though his is surprisingly more tender, and it actually, legitimately makes Boyd cry, to various _aww’s_ around the room.

The guests get more and more relaxed as the evening wears on, they get up and move around and mingle amongst themselves. By the time that the moon hangs in the sky, and the orchestra that Talia had hired is replaced by a DJ, there are many people already making the best of their dance moves.

Stiles’ eyes follow the twirling couples on the dance floor, and he conveys a calming sort of stillness that Derek hasn’t really seen from the man in a long time. Derek can’t help but compare this Stiles with the one that was present in the last few days before he left, when he was so overcome with trembles that Derek ached for him, physically _ached_ as he held him through his convulsions.   

Stiles now has an almost perfect control over his own body, though he occasionally still moves like he expects his body to betray him, moving along with the ghost touch of a vibration before he catches himself and remembers that he’s better now.

Stiles sits with an all encompassing poise, and Derek is struck once again by how different Stiles is, by how he _feels_ : not older, not exactly, but more mature in a way, more self-assured. It entrances Derek, binds him to Stiles in way that should feel suffocating but instead is totally and completely freeing.

The dim light of the overhead lamps hovers in the air like star-shine, and it catches on Stiles’ long lashes and refracts in the deep russet colour of his eyes, the tips of his hair, the gentle curve of his mouth.

Derek’s own eyes run over him, incessant in the way that they try to catalogue every nuance of the man. From the contrast created by the midnight black of Stiles’ tuxedo jacket against the pale skin of his throat to the way his fingers, long and thin, move in his lap in time with the song reverberating around the room.

Stiles watches as Allison twirls Scott around the dance floor, mouth curving around a soft huff of fond laughter when he sees Allison jokingly dip a flustered Scott, before she hauls him back up into a kiss, swaying softly to the music.

Stiles turns his head, automatically looking towards Derek to share an indulgent smile, his eyes are warm and bright, his mouth open as it widens into a grin, his teeth, neat and white, just slightly peeking out between his lips.

He catches Derek in the act of gazing and his expression softens, that look of utter fondness, gives Derek the confidence to stand up and, after re-buttoning his blazer, extend a hand, palm up, to Stiles.

Derek finds great amusement in the myriad of different expressions that run through Stiles’ face as what Derek’s asking finally slots into place, varying from mild panic, to extreme flurry before finally settling on pleasant astonishment.

He hesitates but Derek waits patiently, his eyes firmly locked on his, smiling lightly.

“Come on,” he says, quirking his fingers. “A song?”

“I don’t know how to dance,” Stiles says, and he hesitates, eyes quickly flickering to the entwined couples circulating on the main floor, like figures in a fairytale.

“You know how to dance,” Derek rolls his eyes, and he remembers his old dancing lessons when he was younger; how his dance instructor proclaimed: _“One may not have rhythm, but surely you can dance!”_ Though, in retrospect, it was mostly sighed in defeat to Laura, who had to have been the _worst_ dancer in the entire family, before Miss Groeneveld had moulded her into the proverbial swan.

Stiles lifts an incredulous eyebrow, mouth pursing pink and soft.

“I know how to _crunk_ ,” he says drily, but he stands up nevertheless, sliding his hand into Derek’s proffered palm. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve got a feeling that crunking in my tuxedo in the middle of a wedding would not be socially acceptable among your class.”

Derek smiles, because there is no way whatsoever that he’s letting Stiles leave this party without crunking, at least once, in front of the family’s stuffy, upper class acquaintances.

“I have the grace of a koala,” Stiles is saying as Derek slowly leads him on to the dance floor. He’s making absolutely no sense, but Derek figures that he’s doing it on purpose so as to distract from the way his cheeks are slowly flushing red, Derek hasn’t the heart to tell him that it isn’t working. “And apparently, I have no dignity left today, so what’s one more embarrassment, right?”

Derek leads him to the furthermost corner of the dance floor, shifting so that Stiles is partially hidden from the guests swaying elegantly behind Derek. Stiles seems to retain that air of nervousness even though Derek is monopolising his attention.

He sees Stiles’ throat work as his eyes take in all of the trim lines of the suit, running from the dip of Derek’s waist, all the way up to the green of Derek’s eyes.

Stiles pats Derek’s chest with a wobbly smile.

“You look nice,” he says. “Very, very nice.”

“You’re not going to embarrass yourself,” Derek says, in lieu of addressing Stiles’ compliment. He shifts close to Stiles, the song warbling on in the background, and slides an arm around Stiles’ waist. “Just follow me.”

With one hand hanging idly by his side and the other firmly around his love’s waist, Derek starts with an easy sway, a gentle and simple the movement right along with the throaty tones of [Otis Redding](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jqVrNK4uiB4).

Shuddering slightly, Stiles’ cheeks a tinge with a renewed blush and he shuffles closer to Derek, pressing his face to Derek’s shoulder and wrapping his arms around Derek’s waist.

Derek can feel the self-consciousness all along Stiles’ body, where his fingers are scrunched up in the back of Derek’s blazer He's probably wrinkling the delicate material, but Derek’s way past caring by now.

He presses his lips to Stiles’ temple, and lets Stiles interpret the sheer happiness Derek feels by way of the smile on his lips. It doesn’t take too long until Derek feels Stiles relax against him, less in increments and more like all at once, without any uncertainty.

Derek moves slowly, an easy: _right, right, step left, left,_ over and again along with the beat.

That, in turn, makes their bodies move sinuously as they turn on the spot, Stiles’ skin warm where Derek’s lips touch, and his eyes closed where his face rests against Derek’s shoulder.

His deft fingers unfurl against the small of Derek’s back, and he presses the heat of his palms into the twin lines of muscle at either side of Derek’s spine. He lifts his head up, laughing softly and he shakes his head a little, as if to dispel his embarrassment.

“What?” Derek asks, placing his other arm around Stiles’ waist, they’re so intertwined now, so wrapped up in each other that it should be a little bit hard to breathe.

“Nothing,” Stiles says, licking his lips against a smile, arms coming up to drape around Derek’s shoulders. “I just-. I’m really happy I’m back.”

Derek smiles back and he can’t help but presses Stiles closer to him, bumping their foreheads together. “Me too,” he says.

Despite everything, Stiles’ steps are assured and smooth despite the fact that he messes up more often than not, stepping on Derek feet and biting back numerous smiles over Derek’s pained expressions.

“You’re so goddamn bony,” Derek protests the fifth time Stiles steps on his shoes, scuffing the polished leather.

Stiles rolls his eyes, “You like it,” nothing more is said because Derek does, and they both know it.

Stiles confidently follows Derek, even in something as ordinary as this, he’s able to just hand the ropes over to Derek, if only for a little while.

“How are you not flailing right now?” Derek can’t help but ask, frown directed at the elegant creature he’s holding.

Stiles grins, but it’s diffident, pleased as he ducks his head, chuckling lightly. Then he lifts his chin, licks his lips quickly and looks straight at Derek with mischievous defiance. “Well, I’m a changed man now, Derek. I guess I’m just full of surprises.”

Derek’s eyes soften, because even through the light-heartedness he can hear the seriousness in Stiles’ voice. He has no doubt that Stiles _is_ different now, and that he worked damn hard to be so.

And it’s not that Derek thinks that Stiles is cured, because he _knows_ that that’s not how it works and he can attest to that, because even after all of this time, he still dutifully marches himself and his son over to Doctor Morrell’s every Friday afternoon.

So, he knows how much work it takes and how much work it’s going to _continue_ to take; and that, he thinks, is what makes his admiration for the man in front of him grow a little brighter.

A smile tugs at his lips, “You are.”

“I’ve changed,” Stiles says, and he looks a little nervous, looking up at Derek through his eyelashes, like he thinks that Derek believes that their relationship will be the same even after all they’ve been through.

“I know,” Derek says, because no matter how much he might want to, he knows that he can’t recreate the past. “But you’re still my Stiles.”

Stiles bites his lip and smiles at the exact moment that Derek realises _exactly_ what he’s just said, and the utter, undeniable _cheesiness_ of it.

He groans, loud.

And Stiles, he throws his head back and he laughs: full-bellied and wonderful.

“You’re such a fucking dork,” Stiles tells him. Shakes his head affably, “I love you.”

The smile on his face, is small and private and Derek feels such a rush of affection because Stiles is stunning, absolutely and completely stunning.

All at once Derek feels like his breath has stopped in full flow and that his chest is steadily filling up with deliriously exultant air as he takes in the sight.

They move together simply, intimate and smooth even as Derek’s heart thuds in his chest, so loud in his ears that it feels that it overtakes the entire room as the song begins to quieten.

Stiles begins to step away as the song fades, but Derek reels him back in, tightening his grip and moving his hands so as to lead. He slips his hand into Stiles’ and automatically straightens his posture, Miss Groeneveld's voice ringing in his ear: “Poise, Derek, _poise_ is the key to a perfect dance and a successful life!”

Stiles raises his eyebrows at Derek’s sudden change, at the sharp line of his spine and his rigid shoulders.

“Professional ballroom classes as a child, right?” Stiles guesses with a sycophantic smirk, “How very classy of you.”

Derek knows this, so naturally: he ignores him and instead says, “I’m not done with you yet.”

Stiles huffs a laughs, but as the opening bars of the [newest song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zrK5u5W8afc&list=PLgnxrTrD23zQLT9ILLqmwjuXZFWlp1MSr) filter out into the room Stiles’ expression gentles, he presses his lips together in a smile and exhales contentedly through his nose.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, “I love this song.”

Derek has the sudden, insatiable desire to taste his lips at the sight of the way that they purse slightly, like Stiles wants to sing along but hasn’t quite yet found the syllables for it. So he does: he pecks him lightly, mouth against mouth. It’s brief and chaste but it leaves Stiles with his eyes closed and his mouth stretched in a lingering daze.

Derek’s eyes never leave Stiles’ face, not even as Stiles begins to mouth the lyrics of the song. He looks ridiculous, utterly _ridiculous_ and he knows it too, by the faces he’s making: exaggerated, caricatured expressions of tragic and painful love.

 _“And time goes by so slowly,”_ Stiles mimes, face wrenched into that of hyperbolic tenderness, _“And time can do so much. Are you still mine?”_

Derek laughs, the sound comes so easily to him now, with Stiles right here in front of him. There’s lightness in Derek’s entire being as he intricately moves his and Stiles’ body, a symbiotic relationship between the spring in his step and how it is equally, perfectly matched by Stiles as they dance, marking a path across the floor and back again.

They are so wrapped up in and around each other that it seems only natural for Derek to tug Stiles closer still, press to him as the tempo picks up slightly, as the strings become lofty and elevated and the bass quickens ever so faintly. Revelling in the closeness, Derek can feel the heat of Stiles all around him; he’s so close that he can smell the undertones of coffee and caramel beneath Stiles’ aftershave.

Stiles’ hand in his feels ridiculously right, utterly familiar; and they seem to get serious all of a sudden, not weighty or dreadfully morose, but it's just that the song gets to them in ways that they hadn’t really expected.

The faces that Stiles pulls gradually stop, and he gently places his head on Derek’s shoulder, nose budging into the crook of Derek’s neck, and he lets go of Derek’s hand, wrapping both of his arms around the back of Derek’s neck, fingers scrabbling against the smooth material.

So it’s the most natural thing in the world for Derek to allow his eyes to droop closed, to lean forward a little and rest his cheek against the top of Stiles’ head.

" _I'll be coming home,_ " Stiles sighs. " _Wait for me._ "

The mere touch of Stiles’ skin against Derek’s sends warm floods of liquid happiness flowing through Derek’s veins, faster and faster until they reach the pinnacle: zooms of energy breaking the surface and peaking, _bursting_ like uncontained fireworks in a shower of contentment; leaving his skin hot and zinging.

Derek feels exactly when Stiles’ eyes flicker shut, mouth moving as he carefully begins to whisper the lyrics into Derek’s skin, words soft and intimate in a way that almost hurts.

They’re encompassed in each other, pressed so tightly together and moving as one; their bodies fitting together as if they were made for each other and they’re completely ignorant of anyone else – living in an entirely separate and private world of their own.

They have no need of words now, they correspond simply by touch. Derek’s only thought being the reflection of how sweet Stiles feels against him, how familiar it feels to count the time in the rise and fall of his chest and the breaths against his neck.

Derek holds on even tighter then, because this feels so perfect to him, so utterly fragile and beautiful and wonderful that he wants to ingrain every single moment of this into his memory, every single one.

As the song finishes and Stiles pulls back to look back at Derek, they share a long, catching smile between them.

The moment dissipates once he realises that in their self-contained embrace they had migrated further into the dance floor, the almost empty dance floor, that is. Except for miscellaneous guests twirling thoughtlessly around them, they stand alone slightly off centre with the eyes of their family upon them, watching them warmly from the various sidelines.

Talia holds Isabella at the bride’s table, green eyes wet and happy even as she tries to redirect Is’ attention from the chocolate fountain in front of her, Anthony has Luna perched on his shoulders, with Lydia leaning into him, and on his other side stand Alma and Laura, arms interlinked with matching and knowing grins, though Laura’s is considerably more tinged with that familiar older-sibling-snobbery that Derek’s had to deal with for the past three decades.

Scott, Jackson and Allison, by contrast, stand on the other side of the room, sitting beside the Sheriff and Freda and Derek smiles at them, bashfully returning the Sheriff’s awkward wave.

Stiles barely stifles a snort in reaction to his dad’s awkwardness, he’s acting embarrassed but Derek knows him well enough to recognise the sheer relief and fondness he feels at the look of prideful love in the Sheriff’s eyes.

Derek swivels his eyes towards Erica and Boyd. Reclining against her new husband, Isaac snuggled close to her side and Cora on Boyd’s lap, Erica looks the vision of happiness. Her dress billows out beneath her in a dream of ivory lace and silk, spilling over Boyd’s knee, and she smiles tearfully at Derek, blowing him a kiss.

He beams at her, even as Stiles laughs in renewed self-consciousness, turning his body towards Derek, pulling him closer.

“We made quite the show there,” he says, cheeks flushing red despite the wide smile firmly in place.

“We make quite the pair,” Derek concedes, and he presses a kiss to his lips.

-

Later, much later, after the embarrassment of their romantic liaison has somewhat diminished, and Derek’s lost his blazer to some indeterminate chair somewhere in the room, the opening bars of [_My Girl_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ltRwmgYEUr8) begins to sound out through the room.

It’s very late, surely way past midnight: the moon hangs bright and full in the sky, the non-family members and the wait staff have all left, children under the age of two have been put to bed along with the family members over the age of seventy and the party is in full swing.

An hour previously, Stiles and Scott, whilst heavily inebriated, performed their synchronised [womp](http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=f00upW1eZP4#t=195), remaining eerily harmonised despite the fact that their dance is nothing more than jellied limbs and slouching figures, kind of like that [video](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=waErria74uo) that Laura had shown Derek months before, giggling even more incessantly with each replay.

But the song is so loud and so damn vivacious that when it comes on over the speakers, manfully DJ-ed by Derek’s father, it has the entire Boyd, Hale and Stilinski clans crowding onto the dance-floor.

This time though, Stiles is the one that drags Derek in amongst the crowd, throwing incandescent smiles at everyone they pass as they weave into the centre.

He turns to Derek with eyes that are bright and warm, his blazer is equally as lost to the room, his tie is undone and loose over his untucked shirt, his hair is running wild from his fingers and his cheeks are flushed.

Derek takes a moment to just _be_ , he’s drunk on champagne, surrounded by his family on a warm summer night, and it’s amazing.

He feels _good_ , and for once he feels good without having the burden of _“but what if?”_ hanging over his shoulder.

Derek takes a look at his family and he smiles. Talia is dancing with Boyd’s father, a tall and broad man, with a bulbous laugh and strands of white weaved in amongst his wiry black beard. They’re doing some kind of horrendously gentle hip-check, jumping on the spot before each turning the other way and doing it once more, and it has Derek and Boyd catching each other’s eye and groaning together.

Boyd is currently attempting to dance with Erica, the latter of which is literally running circles around her new husband, a glass of white wine in one hand, her dress gathered in the other as she giggles helplessly. Boyd snakes an arm around her waist and pulls her in tight, kissing the smile on her face.

Anthony and Alma are on the other side of Derek, spending their time away from Luna kissing each other stupid, whilst Lydia, beside them, dances close to Jackson, the shimmy of their hips matching the giddy smiles on their faces as they slur the lyrics of the song. Further behind them is Erica’s younger sister sitting at the table with Boyd’s mom, absolutely guffawing with laughter at what Rosemary is saying.

Derek watches as Cora smushes her hands to her face in embarrassment at Laura’s terrible dance moves, but she laughs anyway. Laura, barefoot and wild eyed, reaches forward to grasp Cora’s wrists, exposing her face as Laura croons to her, and then together they dance, hand linked, matching smiles on their faces, Laura’s hair tumbling in fallen waves down her back and Cora’s pretty white dress stained green with grass where they fall over her shoes.

Scott and Allison are entangled with Boyd’s grandmother in some complicated three-way step towards the edge of the dance floor, whilst the Sheriff pursues the equally noble act of dancing with Boyd’s youngest sister, Melanie.

In front of Derek is Stiles, dizzy on champagne and happiness as he grabs at Derek’s arms, pulling him sloppily towards him, though they fit against each other, easy and rightful, like the rhythm of the song.

Stiles laughs in Derek’s ear, kisses the corner of his mouth, wraps himself up in Derek as he sings to him, it’s so good that it feels like Derek can do nothing more than go along with him. So he smiles and he laughs along too, because they’ve made this far, and he’s damn sure going to enjoy this now.

Stiles sways forward, capturing Derek’s lips in another quick kiss before he lays his head down on his shoulder, sighing contentedly. Derek catches the eye of his father, sitting proudly behind the DJ deck in his tuxedo with a pile of his vinyl CDs ready to be played.

Isaac sits on the chair beside him, hands between his legs, gripping at the seat of the chair beneath him as he sways dramatically to the tempo of the song, his mouth open and wide as he warbles incoherently along to the lyrics.

Isaac sees Derek watching him and he pauses, then he absolutely beams at his father, pearly white teeth glinting against the soft light as his eyes scrunch up and his cheeks fatten.

Before Derek knows it, Isaac is running towards him, small body weaving expertly between the adult bodies on the dance floor and straight to his father. Derek barely has enough time to adjust his stance, pulling a little away from Stiles to bend down and scoop Isaac up into his arms.

He goes easily, fitting on Derek’s hip with a comfortable familiarity and Isaac wraps his arms around Derek, pressing a messy, wet kiss on his cheek, though he's probably just thankful that Derek hasn’t yet sent him off to bed. 

Isaac fits securely between Derek and Stiles, with both their arms winding around his small body. Derek knows that Isaac won’t always be this small, that he won’t always be so easily accepting of embarrassing kisses and extraordinarily long hugs, but it’s okay for now, Derek thinks, because Isaac will always be his son.

Their little unit of three huddles close together on the dance-floor, surrounded by the people they love, with music and food and laughter and _affection,_ it’s amazing. Though they’re not complete yet, not without Wolf, Derek knows that there’s plenty of time for that later, time for it tomorrow and the day after that, and the years and years after that hopefully.

But now, Derek smiles; with his son nestled sleepy, warm and safe in his arms, and his love, _Stiles_ , with his smile and his laughter and his bright brown eyes, now, with both of them so close to him, Derek falls in love all over again.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tadaaa!!  
> We're here! We've come to end! Please let me know what you think either in the comments or on my tumblr (cousinstiles), any criticisms, thoughts, generalities anything!  
> Sayonara guys, it's been real :) <3

**Author's Note:**

> I update on Sundays and I make stupid jokes ... sorry! :)


End file.
